


about as bashful as a tribal dance

by fiveaces



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Alpha Alfie, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Omega Tommy, Other, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Sexism, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-03-01 04:30:31
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13287024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fiveaces/pseuds/fiveaces
Summary: Tommy’s got a plan for everything; for every curveball and situation thrown at him, he always knows what to do.Until he meets Alfie Solomons, that is.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Dangerous Animals" by the Arctic Monkeys.
> 
> This is my first Peaky Blinders fic, so please forgive me if I make a few mistakes. 
> 
> -Ace

Tommy’s thirteen when he goes into his first heat. 

It’s the most painful thing he’s ever experienced and after he’s done, after the crying and the pain and the slick drenched sheets are washed away with cool water and soothing hands, Aunt Polly sits him down and tells him everything he needs to know about being an omega.

She tells him that he’ll be mated once he comes of age, to some alpha who’s going to give him a home and children. She paints it like a pretty picture; a big house, beautiful clothes and a kind mate who’ll complete Tommy, getting him pregnant with cute little children that run around barefoot on bright green grass under a clear blue sky.

Tommy knows it’s a lie, that Aunt Polly is spinning these pretty fantasies to calm him down from an oncoming panic attack. Because in Birmingham, dreams like that can never co-exist with the squalor and poverty, the rotting slums. Can’t exist with the constant fights between gangs and prostitutes that have made the streets their domain. Those types of fantasies can’t exist in the smoke and the pollution that thickens the air and makes it hard to breathe, that turns everything into shades of dull greys. 

Fantasies like that are beyond the wildest imagination of Birmingham folk like Tommy. They can only exist in the estates of the aristocracy; the fat cats with their fancy clothes and food, the ones who own horses by the dozen and wear all their jewels at once. The ones who’ve never had to do a hard day’s work in their life. 

If Tommy were to mate once he comes of age, his mate would be a brute, an alpha older than him who would beat him into submission and force him to stay home. An alpha from a rival gang, perhaps, if his father had any say in it. He’d be used as a bargaining chip for the Shelby family, an item to be sold off to the highest bidder.

Tommy doesn’t tell this to Aunt Polly, he doesn’t want to worry her, she’s already got enough on her plate due to the disappearance of her children. So he just nods and smiles, and when he meets Aunt Polly’s intelligent gaze he can see that she knows that Tommy’s very well aware that fairytale matings don’t come true for people like the Shelbys.

“Oh, Tommy,” Aunt Polly sighs, voice forlorn and her normally sharp face lined with sadness, slightly softened. She tugs at him till she’s hugging him close, and Tommy clings on to her and breathes in her scent. “You’re too smart for your own good.”

Tommy doesn’t reply, just makes himself smaller and tightens his grip on Aunt Polly’s black dress, knuckles turning white. 

He wishes he wasn’t an omega.

_________________

The War comes and goes, and leaves Tommy the shell of a man he once was.

He’s declared a war hero for his work in the tunnels, and when he’s handed his medals, Tommy smiles and salutes. He feels like a show horse, dressed in uniform, medals pinned to his chest, paraded around and living a lie. Later that night he looks at them, in his room, but instead of seeing the bravery he showed in the shiny gold plating, all he’s sees are the faces of his dead friends and the crippling fear that has travelled with him all the way from France.

No longer can he walk the streets without the weight of a gun in his pocket, a reassurance when things go from bad to worse, Tommy will have protection because he’s learnt that the only way to survive in a world shaped by cruelty is to be cruel yourself.

And so, Tommy becomes cruel. He puts on a façade of indifference, tells the Peakys, his family what to do. And they do it, because he’s proven himself to them that he’s more than a pretty little thing to get fucked and knotted. He’s shown all of Birmingham that Thomas Shelby is a force to be reckoned with, and a force to be reckoned with he is.

The Peaky Blinders are his to control now, and Tommy’s got big plans for them.

 


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be some dialogue at the beginning of the chapter that was used in Season One, Episode Two.
> 
> (Also, I do like Grace, but she’s not going to be with Tommy in this fic. Just a friend)  
> -Ace

“Are you Mr. Shelby?” the man asks, a beta who looks like a gust of wind could blow him away. He looks over at Tommy, eyebrows furrowed as he takes out a notepad and a pen. 

“Yes,” Tommy replies, staring into the flames. A picture of the King stares back at him, the fire licking away at it, until nothing but ashes remain. He turns to the man, cigarette in hand as he gives an acknowledging glance before turning back to the fire. “I’m Mr. Shelby.”

The man stares at him, completely ignorant of the crowds surrounding them as he looks at Tommy with a dumbfounded expression, he licks his lips nervously, shifting on his feet.

“Don’t worry, you’re protected,” Tommy says, taking a puff of his cigarette. The smoke curls in the air, mingling with the one coming from the fire. He shoves a hand in his coat pocket and widens his stance. He hears the man inhale a sharp breath beside him as he takes a step back.

“W-what’s going on?” the man stutters, pushing his glasses up his nose and blinking owlishly at Tommy. He curls in on himself, as if he’s trying to make himself appear smaller than he really is.

“There’re a few things I need you to write down for tomorrow’s papers.” The man nods and flips open his notepad, pen poised for writing. Tommy tells him about the Belfast officers, about the havoc they're wrecking on his city. “We’re burning pictures of the King to raise the alarm, we don’t want him to see what’s happening to us.”

The man keeps on writing, occasionally glancing up at Tommy as if he can’t quite believe that he’s actually doing this, writing the words of an omega to be published in the papers.

“You write about what’s happening here,” Tommy says, indicating to the fire and the people around them. He throws the cigarette to the ground and crushes it with his foot. “Spare no detail, we want everything out there by tomorrow.”

The man nods, and looks like he’s about to leave before he hesitates and licks his lips again, “In what capacity do you speak? If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Shelby.”

“None,” Tommy replies, face betraying no emotion. He meets the man’s eyes. “I’m an ordinary man, who won gallantry medals at the Somme.”

The beta writes it all down, pushes his glasses up his nose and shifts some more on his feet, clutching the notepad and pen tight against his chest. Tommy sighs internally.

“Go on, go,” Tommy says, waving an arm. “You’re job here is done.”

Immediately, the man rushes away, leaving Tommy alone in a crowd of people. Arthur stumbles over and throws an arm around his shoulders, breath smelling of alcohol.

“Everything done, Tommy boy?” he slurs, swaying slightly, leaning into Tommy for support.

“Yeah,” Tommy nods, looking over at him. “The story’ll be out by next morning.”

Arthur hoots, and throws the bottle he was holding into the fire, making it burst into newer, bigger flames. The crowd around them cheer, and throw a few more pictures and bottles in, making the fire rise higher and higher into the night sky.

The Inspector is in for a surprise, tomorrow morning, and Tommy can’t wait to read all about it.

_________________

“I’ve got that Grace girl down by the pub coming with me to the races,” Tommy tells Polly when he sees her the next afternoon. “Told her to put on a nice dress, and all that.”

Polly looks up at him from her seat at the table, and takes a sip of her tea. “You’re not interested in her, are you?”

Tommy scoffs. “Of course not, I’m not interested in anybody at the moment. Just need her to sweeten the deal with Kimber tomorrow.”

“Good,” Polly says, putting down her cup and standing up. She brushes at her dress and levels Tommy with a look. “You need to mate soon, anyways, or you’ll never get a baby. Bad things might happen if you don’t hurry up.”

“Poll,” he sighs, running a hand down his face. “I’m not mating, not until we’ve dealt with Kimber and his men.”

“Yeah? And when’s that Tommy?” Polly asks, “Last time we talked about this you said you aren’t mating until you came back from the war, and before that, until John got mated.”

Tommy sighs again, and closes his eyes, rubbing at his temples  “It’s different with me Poll.”

“How is it different, then?” Polly snaps, getting closer to Tommy. “Tell me how’s it different? You both went to war! Except John was mated and had children by then, and you? All you had was a good fuck!”

“Because, John’s an alpha and I’m not,” Tommy snaps back, crossing his arms and scowling. “It’s always going to be different, and you know that.”

“Tommy,” Polly sighs, “Nothing’s going to happen if you get a mate, you’ll still be the head. God knows what would have happened to us if the others decided that you weren’t good enough.”

“I’m going to loose the respect it took years for me to build, Polly, that’s whats going to happen!” Tommy shouts, suddenly furious, eyes blazing. “The reason folk around here respect me is because they don’t see me as an omega! If I get a bloody mate all they’re going to see is Tommy Shelby getting fucked in the arse because he bowed down to his baser instincts. And that’s not going to happen! Not for a long while.”

Tommy pants, chest heaving and face flushed as he leans in close enough to Polly that they’re noses are touching, “I’m not going back to where I started, Poll.”

There’s a tense silence, both omegas still staring at each other, flushed and angry. Polly’s face doesn’t show anything but her scent says more than enough.

“Fine,” she says, after a while, giving in. “Do whatever the fuck you want, Tommy. It’s your life.”

Tommy nods, straightening himself and taking out a cigarette. He clears his throat and lights it up, eyes trained at the glowing end rather than Polly.

“You called me here for something other than telling me to get a mate,” Tommy says, breathing in the tobacco. He lets out a breath, smoke curling up over his head and spreading out into the room. “What is it.”

“I don’t want to tell you now, what with all the shouting,” Polly replies. Tommy’s about to protest before she puts up a hand. “I’m going to say it anyways, it can’t be put off.”

Tommy cocks his head at her, eyes imploring as he leans against the shut door again. “Go on, then.”

Polly looks over Tommy’s shoulder at the green paint of the door, before meeting his eyes. “Ada’s pregnant.”

“Fucking hell,” he swears, stubbing out his cigarette and throwing the doors open. “Where is she?”

“She’s watching a film,” Polly replies, Tommy’s about to leave before Polly calls out. “Be gentle with her, would you? She’s just as upset as you are.”

“I’ll try Poll, I’ll try.” And with that Tommy leaves, rushing out the house, forgetting to put on his coat and hat as marches to the theatre. Whoever got Ada pregnant is a dead man, Tommy promises. And Tommy always keeps his promises.


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry that this is going slow, but I really want to expand on Tommy. Alfie'll be coming soon, though!
> 
> (Suggestions on how they meet are always welcome, and very much encouraged!)
> 
> -Ace

“What the bloody fuck are you doing here, Tommy?” Ada asks, practically spitting out the words. She’s angry and stressed and some little voice in the back of Tommy’s head is saying it’s bad for the baby in her belly. He shakes it off, though, now is not the time for these thoughts. 

“You know why I’m here, Ada. Tell me the name of the man who did this to you,” Tommy says, trying not to let anger seep into his voice. A fight with Ada is not the right way to go about things, and Tommy promised Polly he’d behave. Mostly. 

Ada shifts in her seat, bag in her hand crinkling, knowing there’s no room for argument. She turns to Tommy, eyes darting between him and the screen, “Rudolph Valentino.”

“Bullshit. Tell me the name, Ada.”

“Fine, it’s Freddie Thorne,” she bites back, voice raising in pitch as Tommy abruptly gets up and walks to the exit. She sits up straighter in her seat and starts yelling. “You know, your best fucking friend since school! The one who saved your life in the war! Yeah, go on, kill him will you, show him how fucking grateful you are!”

She’s absolutely seething as Tommy stalks off, ignoring her and heading for Freddie, no doubt about it. Flopping back down on the chair, she huffs and takes deep breaths, placing a hand on her belly. The bump is barely visible through her clothing, but she can feel it, small and round. 

The cinema is quiet, the other patrons eyes boring into the back of her neck. The film’s stopped playing and Ada sighs again, frustrated. God, couldn’t anything go smoothly for once in her life?

She turns around so she can look up to the booth, “Oi! Put the damn film back on! I’m a Shelby, too, you know!”

Immediately the film starts back up again, the black and white image of Rudolph Valentino showing up on the screen, smiling brightly at the woman he’s with as he ushers her in to his living room, hand in hand. 

Settling down, Ada continues to eat her popped corn. Her eyes are on the screen but her attention is elsewhere, thoughts drifting to the various scenarios Tommy might put Freddie through.

She can’t do anything to stop him, but she can pray for Tommy to go easy on Freddie. 

_________________

“I promised the coppers that you’re out the city by tomorrow, or else,” Tommy’s got his gun on Freddie, the barrel pressing into his temple. He won’t shoot, not when Ada’s pregnant with the alpha’s child, but he won’t back down either. 

Freddie laughs dryly, eyes on the river flowing in front of him, they follow the gentle lapping of the water, the little waves and ripples that glisten under the heat of the mid-afternoon sun, “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Tell me, Freddie,” Tommy says. “Do you want to die?” It’s an empty threat on his part, but he knows the police, that Campbell, are going to do the dirty deed if Freddie and Ada aren’t out of Birmingham before sunrise tomorrow. 

Freddie turns to look up at him from where he’s crouched down on the ground and meets Tommy’s eyes with a little smirk in place, “Depends on the cause.”

Tommy’s hand shakes as he stares his best friend down. Tense minutes pass, nothing but the sounds of their laboured breaths filling in the stifling silence. They’re in one of the warehouses where the Communists meet, and the creaking of old wood adds onto the ominous feel of the situation. 

“I don’t want to do this Freddie,” Tommy says, finally breaking the quiet. He drops his hand down, gun still clutched in a white knuckled grip, but the trigger is left untouched. “Think of Ada and the baby, Freddie. You can’t help them when you’re down there, now can you?”

Freddie’s eyes soften, and his shoulders slump so he’s curling in on himself. Tommy remains standing, but he finally lets go off the gun, putting it back in its holster. He knows Freddie won’t try anything, not when Tommy’s mentioned Ada and the child they’re going to soon have. 

“Look,” Freddie sighs, rubbing his temples. “I can’t get out of the city, I’ve got people relying on me, Tommy. I can’t just up and leave, not when we’ve been making real progress here.”

“Think about Ada, Freddie,” Tommy says again. “She’s relying on you to keep her and the baby safe. You can’t go running about with the coppers chasing after you, it’s just not right.”

Freddie sighs again, and slumps some more.. He doesn’t meet Tommy’s eyes but he pats the space next to him and Tommy complies, crouching down to sit beside him. Another silence descends upon them, somehow heavier than the last.

“I-I’ll do it,” Freddie finally says wearily. “Ada and me, we’ll go down to London, I have some connections there so we’ll be safe, and I’ll make sure to keep in touch, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Tommy breathes out, relief flooding through his veins. God, he can’t believe how easy it turned out to be, he expected fights and a prolonged waiting period where he’ll have to hide Freddie and Ada while the coppers go around knocking every door down to catch them. But, this, this is fantastic and Tommy can’t wait to tell the news to Polly and Ada. He won’t have their disappointed eyes staring straight into his soul. 

He gets up, then, slapping Freddie on the back and brushing off his coat and pants.

“Good luck,” Tommy wishes, walking out the warehouse. “Ada’ll meet you tomorrow morning by the docks.”

Freddie nods in acknowledgment, not bothering to get up. He still stares into the river, eyes glazed over and Tommy can’t tell whether he’s just as happy as Tommy about the situation, or if he’s regretting his decision. 

Whatever the matter, all Tommy cares about is that Ada’s finally going to be happy and safe, and he won’t have to play the villain for once in his life. What a pleasant thought, that is, and he lets himself indulge in a rare smile. 

Now all he has to do is to convince Kimber to let his men provide protection to his bookies, and he won’t have any trouble with that, if the rumours about Kimber liking pretty things is true. He’s just got to persuade Grace to follow through with his plan. Well, that, and deal with Chester Campbell. 

But the latter can be dealt with soon enough, for now Campbell and him are in agreement, but Tommy’s got to go about finding a way to get rid of the overly egotistical alpha later.

He’s going to the races in two days, and he needs to get ready.


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took this long to post a new chapter! :/ Some things came up and I was swamped with work but now I'm more free so that's good! :D
> 
> Hope you guys enjoy, and thank you for the kudos and comments! Again, more are appreciated and if you have any concerns or ideas about characters and plot developments please comment! I'll reply to each and every one! 
> 
> It means the world to me, you guys reading this, so stay awesome and safe! :D 
> 
> -Ace

Gasping, Tommy wakes up in a cold sweat, the clink of shovels and pickaxes ringing through his head like a reckoning. He slouches forward, head in hands, and breathes. One, two, three, inhale. One, two, three, exhale.

He stays like that for a while, shaking and cold, as the sun filters in through the curtains, bathing the room in a pale morning glow. The walls are still intact, the green patterns left undisturbed as Tommy looks over at them. The painting sits there innocently, as if it didn’t have Jerry’s pushing out of it, hollering as they reach out for Tommy with thick fingers and dirty faces.

God, he needs a fucking drink. 

The whiskey slides down his throat in a pleasant burn, and Tommy blinks one, twice, three times before getting up and stretching. He’s got to meet Grace at the Garrison in an hour.

Going through his routine of getting washed and dressed, Tommy lets his mind go blank. He tries to forgot the stench of fear and the overwhelming scents of alpha that filled the tunnels, making his vision hazy when he pulls on his pants, tightening them around his waist with a leather belt. He tries to forgot the sound of metal against rock, the orange glow of the lanterns making the shadows dance across the faces terrified men as he shrugs on his shirt, buttoning it up one by one.

He puts the gun in the holster, the cold metal pressing against his side, and his cap on his head as he walks out the door and tries to forget. 

_________________

Grace is waiting down by the Garrison when he drives up, the engine puttering away as she walks over and gets on, the door slamming shut. She’s wearing a red dress, golden hair framing her face in waves that make her look more demure and gentle than she really is. 

“I thought you’d never come,” Grace says when she’s settled down. “I was waiting for nearly half an hour.”

Tommy doesn’t reply, looking at the road instead. It’s been a while since he drove a car, preferring horseback instead, but it’s a long ways to Cheltenham and he’s got company. The car sputters and coughs, before kick starting and bumping along Birmingham’s dark, dingy streets.

“Are we the only ones?” Grace asks, after some time on the road. They’re in the country now, leaving behind the constant presence of fire and smoke that presses into your lungs and skin. Green fields and blue skies pass in a pleasant blur and Tommy takes a deep breath of fresh air before relaxing slowly into his seat. 

“Not quite so,” Tommy replies, glancing at her before turning his attention back on the road. Grace looks like she’s about to speak up, ask what he means by that, but she quickly shuts her mouth instead. Rummaging through her bag, she procures a cigarette and lights it up. 

She didn’t offer any to Tommy, but he wouldn’t have asked for one anyways. 

_____________

Tommy marches up to Kimber and his accountant, laden with bags full of cash. The plan worked beautifully, Arthur and the others doing exactly as Tommy instructed, and he couldn’t be more proud. 

Standing in front of Kimber, he unceremoniously drops the bags on the table, regardless of the crystal glasses and fancy food. Taking one of the bags, Tommy turns it upside down, so the coins and the notes are strewn across the table and fall to the floor in a loud clatter that draws attention. “Mr. Kimber.”

Kimber looks up at him, mouth open and eyes curious. “And who are you, then, eh?”

“My name’s Thomas Shelby, Mr. Kimber,” Tommy says, taking the seat in front of him. He takes a cigarette out of his pocket and wraps his lips around it, not lighting it up, not yet. “And I have a proposition for you.”

“And what is it?” Kimber asks, leaning forward, interested. Tommy gives him a look, and then fishes out a match, striking it so it lights up in an orange flame. Cupping his palm, he lights the cigarette, real slow like, and glances up at Kimber through his lashes. 

“The protection for your bookies in exchange for legal betting pitches,” Tommy deadpans. Smoke curls up and over his head as he speaks, and Kimber leans in further. Slouching down into his seat and leaning away from Kimber, Tommy indicates towards the money. “I’ve already saved this lot from the Lees. I promise you, Mr. Kimber, I could do a lot more than this.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could,” Kimber purrs, leering. “You’re a pretty little thing aren’t you, Thomas?”

“So I’ve heard,” Tommy says indifferently, he puts out his cigarette and sits up straight, crossing his arms and tilting his head. “ Do we have a deal?”

Kimber blinks at him, and mumbles something indiscernible under his breath. He slaps the back of the man next to him. “My accountant does all the deals, Thomas, I only sign the papers.”

Tommy sighs and turns to the accountant, hoping he doesn’t have to repeat himself a second time. “You heard what I said, didn’t you?”

The man nods, and pushes up his glasses and shuffles some papers. “Indeed I did, Mr. Shelby, I’ll need to further discuss this with Mr. Kimber, though, after looking into the accounts of course.”

Tommy nods, complying and proceeds to get up. Brushing off his suit, he gives another nod to Kimber. “Have a good day.”

“Hey where’re you going?” Kimber calls out as Tommy starts to walk away. “Don’t you want to stay and have a little chat?”

Turning around, Tommy raises a brow. “I only came here for business Mr. Kimber.”

“Now that isn’t any fun, is it?” Kimber says. He moves towards Tommy, and reaches out for his wrist. Quickly, Tommy retracts his wrist so his hands are folded behind his back. Kimber frowns but doesn’t do anything else. “Let’s go back to my place, yeah? Put on some music, have a little party of our own. You can even bring the blonde with you, if you want.”

“No, thank you,” Tommy says, and tries to move away. The alpha doesn’t let up, though, just keeps on advancing towards Tommy with an easy going smile and something akin to lust in his eyes. “I have to be going now.”

“Why leave? Someone as beautiful as you should always be in a party, eh?”

Tommy keeps on moving back, eyes darting around. He catches Grace’s gaze, and the woman in question is fiddling with something in her bag, looking torn between stepping in or letting Tommy deal with it himself. 

This was not how the afternoon was supposed to go. Tommy wasn’t supposed to be the object of Kimber’s lust. Grace was, if things had to turn to this scenario, but never Tommy. 

He’s cornered now, pressed against the wall and Tommy wishes he could make a scene, but he can’t because it’s Kimber and he needs to get into the alpha’s good books because otherwise, things won’t be going to plan.

Opening his mouth, he puts a hand in his pocket, and fingers the little knife there, just in case. Kimber’s on him now, pressing against Tommy and leering down at him before suddenly, there’s a loud shout from behind him. 

“Kimber!” a man calls out, voice deep and thick. “Billy Kimber! Fancy seeing you here, eh? You gone and done an uppity, yeah? Because we were supposed to meet back in London, but when I came to my bakery, guess what? No one was there! A little birdie told me you’d be holing down here with the rats for the duration of your debt. And as I can see down here, you are, naughty boy aren’t you?”

A hand slaps Kimber’s back, making him jolt and move away from Tommy, allowing the omega to squeeze away and stumble into open space. Breathing heavily. Tommy removes his hand away from his pocket, and turns around to see someone, another alpha, shake Kimber. 

“Now what were you doing here?” the alpha says, looking at Kimber. His top hat is tilted so all Tommy can see is a nose and a beard. “Thought I’d told you not to go forcing yourself on unwilling omegas the first time around you came to my bakery, yeah?”

“Mr. Solomons,” Kimber coughs straightening and trying to appear taller than he really is. Solomons still looms over him, though, big and large and alpha. “I was just, making a deal with Mr. Shelby over there.”

“A deal?” Solomons says, tilting his head and shaking Kimber again. “That didn’t look like a deal to me; more of a ‘I want to fuck you without your consent’ type of thing going on instead.”

Kimber sputters and turns red, hands flailing wildly as he tries to find an explanation. Solomons ignores him, though, and slaps him on the back again, harder this time. “We’ll have a little chat about this later, yeah? When we’re not in polite company, and all that.”

He turns to Tommy then, revealing his face fully and Tommy’s breath hitches. 

“Alfie Solomons,” Solomons, says. Tommy looks down at the proffered hand, eyes wary and Solomons chuckles. “I don’t bite, love. Well not much, anyways.”

Quickly shaking himself Tommy takes the hand and gives a firm handshake; once, twice, before letting go. “Thomas Shelby.”

Solomons beams. “Nice to meet you Mr. Shelby.”


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry it took so long!

He doesn’t know what to make of Alfie Solomons. 

It’s unnerving, to say the least, as Tommy blinks up at Solomons who seems delighted by their one sided conversation as he rambles on and on about an anecdote Tommy isn’t even vaguely familiar with. 

“And I told him, right? I told him that he could shove his gun up his arse because I wasn’t going to go about running naked in the fucking streets like I’m in the loony bin, yeah? Really stupid, I says to him, really fucking stupid.”

Solomons looks at Tommy with an intense gaze as he says this, and the omega doesn’t know what to make of it, just blinks nods and makes a noise or two during the end of a sentence to show that he really is listening. 

“You alright?” Solomons asks, head tilted as he leans heavily on his cane. “You still look a bit shook up.”

Tommy swallows and takes a quick glance at Kimber, who still looks terrified, and then a quick glance at Grace, who in question gives him a little smile. Well then. 

“Yes,” Tommy says, nodding. He puts his hand in his pockets and takes a step back. “It’s just, I was going to leave when you came.”

“Ah is that right?”

“Yes,” Tommy says again. “Yes, and I really have to be going.” He takes another step back and gestures at Grace who in turn dutifully stands beside him, clutching her bag like a lifeline. Tommy wonders what’s in it.  
Solomons nods and pulls Kimber closer to him than really necessary. “Well, then, Billy. What do you say when polite company is leaving?”

“Good bye?” Kimber replies, swallowing heavily and sounding very unsure of himself. It’s amazing, really, how he’s suddenly made himself small when just a few moments ago he was asserting his alpha status over Tommy. “Have a lovely day?”

Solomons grins at Kimber and slaps him on the back again. It seems a thing of his, a power move of sorts, Tommy guesses. “Very good, Billy.”

“I suppose you two should be going, now,” Solomons says to Tommy and Grace. He bows a little bit, and nods at both of them. “Goodbye Mr. Shelby and…”

“Burgess, Grace Burgess,” Grace helpfully supplies, still clutching her hand bag tight against her chest. 

Solomons tilts his head. “… and the lovely Ms. Burgess.”

Grace titters a bit at that, and relaxes a bit more next to Tommy. The omega in question tries not to shift away. 

Coughing delicately, Tommy nods back. “Mr. Solomons, nice meeting you.”

Solomons grins back at him and before Tommy can move away, he quickly takes a piece of paper and pencil out of his pocket, scribbling something before handing it over to Tommy with a “Incase you ever decide to drop by in London. I run a bakery there, and you know, more business is good and all that.”

Tommy looks down at the piece of paper in Solomons grip and up at Solomons. “Okay.”

Pocketing it, Tommy decides he really ought to go and check whether Arthur and the others are all right, and slips away with Grace. 

“What was that all about?” Grace whispers as they leave. Tommy doesn’t reply, not until they’re out of the room and Solomons gaze isn’t boring into the back of his neck.

“Nothing that concerns you,” he says simply, before sweeping towards the car. “I’ve got some other business to attend, so hurry along now.”

Grace sighs, and leaves it at that.  
_____________

“He did what?” Polly asks, sounding incredulous. Tommy had called a family meeting earlier, said that he’d had a little chat with Kimber and his accountant and that the Peaky’s are all set now for the time being. His men will work for Kimber in the races, and soon enough, the time will come to shoot the bastard in the face. He hadn’t told Arthur and John too much detail about Solomons, though, but he has told Polly. “Are you sure about that Thomas?”

Tommy gives her a look. “I’m not an idiot, Poll. He told me he wanted to do business.”

“Well, that’s a call for sex, if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Or maybe it isn’t,” Tommy replies, standing up and beginning to pace. He’s been continuously smoking for the past half hour, now, and he really should stop. Spinning on his heel Tommy faces Polly and points his cigarette at her. “Maybe, he really does want to do business.”

“Sure,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes and leaning against the table. “And I’m the Queen”

“Don’t be like that, Poll,” Tommy retorts, crossing his arms. “I’m going to take up the offer, anyway, sometime in the future, after we’ve dealt with Kimber.”

Sitting down, Polly leans back in her chair and looks into Tommy’s eyes. “You’re out of your mind, Tommy.”

“Risks are meant to be taken, Poll. And from what I’ve heard, he’s big in London. We could be a part of that soon enough.”

“You know what else is supposed to be taken, Tom? Advice; and I advise that you don’t go running around with dangerous people like that Solomons character you’ve just described. He’s made Kimber shit his pants, imagine what else he could do.”

Putting out his cigarette, Tommy huffs. “Trust me, Poll, I have a plan.”

“You always have a plan, Tommy,” Polly scoffs, rolling her eyes. “But never one for when things go to absolute shit, because trust me, they will.”

“Improvisation,” Tommy states simply, leaving the room before Aunt Polly starts another slew of protests.  
_____________

It’s later that night, when Tommy’s curled up in bed and trying to block out images of gunfire and dead bodies from his head, that he really thinks about Solomons. 

He is… eccentric, to say the least. 

An unusual man with even more unusual mannerisms, most of which was treating Tommy as an equal, which the omega has never really experienced before from alphas outside of the Peakys. But he’s handsome, and Tommy tries to get that thought process out of his head. It won’t do to be attracted to someone he’s eventually going to have to kill off, if Solomons really is suggesting real business.

He tries going back to sleep, shifting restlessly in bed before getting up in exasperation. The washing up bowl is filled with cold water, and Tommy splashes some of it on his face, trying to cool himself down.

His thoughts wander back to Solomons physical appearance, though. The voice and the eyes and the beard and the hands, oh god. He can feel himself getting wet, gripping the edge of the bowl, the image of what those hands could do in the front in his mind, and shakes himself off before he does anything rash, like finger himself to the sound of Solomons voice. 

No, that just won’t do, and Tommy wanders back to his bed and takes a swig of the whiskey on the table. 

It’s very rare that he gets hot and bothered about an alpha, especially over an alpha he’s just met. But Solomons seems to be breaking a lot of things Tommy thought he’d had in control. Ten minutes with the man, and Tommy’s already speechless about what to say to the strange stories the alpha seems to enjoy discussing. 

He really ought to go to sleep, though. Tomorrow's going to be a long day, what with meeting with Campbell and going to the Lees for a talk.  
God, sometimes he wished he could just get a proper night’s sleep for once without thinking about work. But he’s chosen this life, and there’s no way getting out of it, especially not when he’s gotten so far. Giving up can’t be an option in his books.

Not for a long shot.


	6. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so terribly sorry that it took this long to finish the chapter! x) The past month and then some has been really hectic, and if you guys are concerned about the whole 'When will Tommy and Alfie hook up, please' thing, then it's a slow burn fic (kinda?) so it might take awhile, but hold on. 
> 
> And sorry for the short chapter, I tried my best and things are still really busy, but hopefully the next update will be longer and won't take as long.
> 
> Again, thanks for waiting so long! You guys are amazing! 
> 
> (Also, it would be great if you guys could point out flaws or mistakes in my writing and characterization, as it'll help me fix them and improve later on!)

Campbell’s got this infuriating smirk on his face when Tommy hands him the slip of paper with Stanley Chapman’s address on, and all Tommy wants to do at that moment is to shoot the alpha in the fucking face and leave him for the rats.

“So we have a deal, yeah?” Tommy asks, crossing his arms and refraining himself from doing anything rash. It just won’t do, not at this moment at least. 

“Aye,” Campbell nods, eyes glinting. “We have a deal Mr. Shelby.”

He sneers out the ‘Mr’, like Tommy doesn’t deserve the title, not even after he nearly died in the War while Campbell himself was sitting back home, safe and sane.

Tommy nods, stuffing his hands in his coat pockets and walking briskly away, not wanting to be around Campbell longer than necessary. It’s just when he’s about to step out the door of the warehouse and into the rain, he hears Campbell call out to him one last time.

“Oh, and Mr. Shelby?” he says, sounding every bit the villain he is. “Do remember that I’m the law in Birmingham.”

“I’ll take that into account, Inspector,” Tommy replies, refusing to turn around and meet Campbell’s gaze. “And you’d remember that I’m a Shelby. I own this fucking place.”

He scents more than hears Campbell’s angered response, the thickness seeping out the warehouse and curling into the dampness of the evening when he leaves with a lighter pocket and heavier heart.  
_____________

“You’ve got a telegram.”

Glancing up from his morning paper, Tommy raises an eyebrow at Arthur. “A telegram?”

“A telegram,” Arthur confirms, handing over the note. “From a Mr. Alfie Solomons of Camden Town.”

Tommy blinks up at Arthur and then down at the fax, coughing as he puts down his newspaper and opens up the note, glancing up at Arthur a final time. 

“What’s it say, then?” Arthur asks, seated and leaning back in his chair. He takes a sip of his tea. “He a suitor, Tommy?”

“Of course not,” Tommy says, eyes darting quickly back at the paper and head ducking, trying his hardest not to heat up. Memories of how he’s gotten off to Solomon’s at least two times by now come rushing back. Christ, and he’s only met the bastard once. “Just a potential business partner, s’all.”

“Is he trouble?” Arthur asks, shifting from brotherly teasing to concern in seconds. “‘Cause if he is, Tom, me and John’ll take care off him.”

“No, you won’t,” Tommy snaps, glaring. “Not everything is a threat, Arthur. Next thing we’ll know, you’ll start running down the fucking streets naked screaming ‘The End is Nigh’ or whatever bullshit you’ve dreamt up that day.”

Arthur looks properly offended at that, turning red and sputtering, “I’d never!”

“With the way things have been going lately, Arthur-boy, who knows what’ll happen next.”

“You’ve got a way with words, Tommy, even if those words don’t make any fucking sense,” Arthur says, raising his teacup at him in salute. “I’ll drink me tea to that.”

“With some whiskey in there, eh?”

Arthur beams, completely forgetting Tommy’s earlier comments. “Aye, and some whiskey, too.”  
_____________

Tommy never makes it to Alfie’s bakery until two weeks from when he first got the telegram. 

Things had been hectic in ways that Tommy couldn’t imagine, what with keeping up his end of the deal with Kimber and making sure Campbell and his goons weren't getting any closer to the guns.

Polly’s been nagging at Tommy to go and get some sleep and to eat something other than bread and whiskey, and Ada’s been cooped up in London sending letters that get progressively angrier and angrier each day, blaming everything but herself. Polly says it’s pregnancy hormones and what not, and Tommy sure as hell believes it, because the week before when he went to visit her she seemed perfectly amiable. 

Even Finn’s been getting annoying lately, and it’s when that realisation dawns upon Tommy, the omega decides that enough is enough and he really ought to listen to Arthur’s insistence that he should go out and clear his head a bit, keep himself from going insane with the constant sting of whiskey in the back of his throat and nicotine in his lungs.

Arthur drags him to Charlie’s dock, fussing all the way (and really, who went and called him mum), claiming that Tommy go on a nice boat ride with Curly. Tommy decides to do the only logical thing and see what Solomon’s meant by business.

He doesn’t tell that to Arthur, though, knowing the alpha’ll have something to say. Instead, when they’re a little ways off the dock and Arthur’s cheerful waving isn’t as obvious, Tommy turns to Curly.

“Take me to London.”

Curly blinks at him. “London, Mr. Shelby?”

“Aye, Camden Town.”

Nodding earnestly, Curly goes about doing what Tommy asked, not asking any questions, and really that’s what Tommy likes about the beta.

The ride is silent, and Tommy procures a flask of whiskey that he and Curly pass back and forth, finishing off the last drop just as they reach the docks. The boat’s tied and Tommy steps off, ignoring the curious stares of dock workers, and marches up to whoever seems the most intelligent. 

“Where can I find Alfie Solomons?”  
The man stares at him, dumfounded, for a good minute as if he’s never talked to someone, let alone an omega, before and Tommy’s wondering whether he made poor judgement until the man finally stammers out, “He’s in his bakery.”

There’s a beat where they both stare at each other before Tommy sighs exasperatedly. “Well, show me where it is, then. Come on.”

Nodding hastily, the man turns and leads the way to a warehouse. There’s someone at the door smoking a cigarette, and when he sees Tommy he straightens up immediately, throwing the cigarette to the ground and crushing it with the toe of his boot. 

“Who’re you?” he asks, crossing his arms, scrutinising.

“Thomas Shelby.”

The man let’s out a low whistle, shaking his head. “Never heard of you.”

“That’s because I never told you,” someone says from inside, and the deep timbre of the voice is instantly recognisable, the thick accent ever present in Tommy’s dreams, unfortunatley. Solomons emerges from the warehouse, scruffy beard and all, head tilted as he meets Tommy’s gaze. 

“Glad to see you finally decided to show up, Mr. Shelby,” Alfie says. A dog sits at his feet, all golden fur and big eyes, panting. 

“I’m here for business, Mr. Solomons,” Tommy replies, not breaking their stare. 

“A bit late for that, innit?” Alfie says, head still tilted, moving closer to Tommy. “The proposition I sent out was two weeks ago, and only a limited time offer.”

“You weren’t specific in the telegram, then,” Tommy retorts never unwavering under the alpha’s intense stare. He’s been around them enough, and commanded them enough, that he knows the only way to earn their damn respect is when you act like one of them. “And I’m not someone who bends down to the whims of every one they come across.”

A dangerous silence falls between them, and it isn’t until Alfie beams brightly and slaps a hand on Tommy’s shoulder that the omega relaxes. 

“Ollie,” Alfie tells the beta who’d asked Tommy’s name earlier. “Go get the boys set up with the bread.”

Ollie nods a ‘yes’ before scurrying away inside the warehouse, yelling at someone to get some glasses. 

“Mr. Shelby,” Alfie says, stepping back and into the warehouse. “If you’d follow me.”


	7. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, I finally got around to finishing up this chapter! Thanks for sticking around and for all the support, you all are lovely! Furthermore, I would like to say I will finish this story, but I'm not sure about strictly regular updates, but they will occur every month or so. 
> 
> Again, suggestions and constructive criticism are welcome, and don't be afraid to mention any mistakes I've made, it'll help me improve as a writer. :D
> 
> Also, thank you to the lovely WhenTommyMetAlfie for the fic rec and hallow_een for the investment idea!

He’s given a tour of the building, asked to sample some whiskey before being led to Alfie’s office with the man rambling on about the different methods of brewing and what not. 

Alfie’s got Tommy to sit down before he’s launching into another speech about the perils of the job and whatever the fuck he does on a rainy day. It’s the only decent conversation, albeit one sided, Tommy’s had with someone outside the Peaky’s in months that doesn’t include flirting or threats of violence. It’s refreshing, to say the least.

“So,” Alfie says, leaning back in his chair. He opens his drawer, rummages around a bit, before shutting it again. “Let’s talk business.”

Raising an eyebrow, Tommy clears his throat and leans back on his chair, too, head tilted. “What do you want from me?”

There’s a momentary pause, a hesitation one might assume, but Alfie’s eyes dart from Tommy’s to somewhere at the distance before he speaks. “Well, you see Mr. Shelby, I have a proposition of sorts for you.”

“A proposition,” Tommy repeats, and Alfie’s gaze flickers back up to meet his. His eyes are something unique; not quite blue, not quite green, Tommy realises, but they’re a soft shade that seems more suited for someone smaller than him, someone less intimidating. “… of sorts.”

“Of sorts, yes,” Aflie says. He leans forward now, elbows propped on his desk and hands clasped together. His shoulders are impossibly broad from this viewpoint, hunched together as he leans closer to Tommy. “I want to invest in the Peaky Blinders.”

“And what makes you think I’d take you up on the offer, Mr. Solomons?” Tommy asks, crossing his arms and meeting the alpha’s gaze. 

“Well, you came here, didn’t you?” Alfie says. He tilts his head a bit, eyes glinting. “Unless you were looking for something else?”

It’s a hint at something Tommy doesn’t want to explore, at least not at the moment, too preoccupied with more important things. So he does what he’s best at in these types of situations, ignores the remark and goes on about his business. 

Clearing his throat again, he fishes out a cigarette and lights it up, contemplative. “How do you benefit from it?”

“I see potential in your little group, Mr. Shelby,” Alfie says. “You seem to be a smart lad, I’ve done my research. You’ve done many admirable things, yeah? Faced the pits of hell rather than staying at home and doing whatever the fuck while your brothers fought. Even got a medal for it, didn’t you? You want to make a name of yourself, Mr. Shelby, want to rub elbows with the nobles and their fat pockets. I want to cash in on that.”

Tommy’s left reeling, cigarette forgotten between loose fingers as he stares at Solomons. His face betrays nothing, he’s been trained on that, but his mind is a mess, a flurry of thoughts and connections as he blinks at Alfie for what seems like ages.

“You want to expend on the Peaky’s because of me,” Tommy states, dumbfounded. Alfie let’s out a snort, yes crinkling as he gives a little laugh.

“Nah, that’s not all the facts. I need muscle and you’ve got it. Well, not you, per say, but you get the picture, eh?”

“Yeah,” Tommy says, voice sounding a tad bit faint. “I got it.”

“Excellent!” Alfie beams. He opens the drawer he’d been rummaging around in previously, procuring a bottle of whiskey. “Let’s drink to this before I change me mind.”

Tommy nods, and when he’s downed his first glass he’s started to notice the sunlight coming in through the window and highlighting the slope of Alfie’s cheekbones from where they aren’t covered by his beard.

_______________

“How the fuck are you drunk?” is the first thing Arthur says when Tommy steps into the house. The latter had asked Curly to take him the longer route, drinking the rest of the contents of the bottle Alfie had given him as he contemplated on what the fuck to do now he’s got the alpha rooting for his team. He hasn’t even killed Kimber yet, and he’s already won the fucking lottery.

“‘M not,” Tommy says as he sways a bit. There’s a flush to his cheeks, warm to the touch and he ins’t sure whether it’s from the alcohol or the hazy memory of his meeting earlier today. “Jus’ had a bottle.”

“A bottle!” Arthur exclaims as he takes off Tommy’s coat and cap. “Honestly, Tom, how strong is the stuff that you get plastered like this, eh? Fucking hell, I haven’t seen you this out of it since before the war.”

Tommy let’s out a little hum as he’s moved this way and that, eyes closing as he lets his forehead rest against Arthur’s shoulder. “We got someone from London funding us now, Arthur.”

“Funding us?” Arthur asks as he leads Tommy to a chair and settling him down. “You went to a meeting instead of the boat ride? You need to learn how to take a fucking break, Tommy. It’s for your health, you know.”

Humming again, Tommy rolls his head back against the back of the chair and sighs. “We’re gonna be big Arthur. Become legal an’ everything. An’ after Kimber’s gone we’ll get to London, too.”

“Big dreams for such a tiny thing,” Arthur says fondly, patting Tommy’s head. He doesn’t argue against Tommy’s words, firm in the belief that the omega’s going to get them to the top. “C’mon then, drink some water and get on to bed.”

“Where’s Poll,” Tommy asks, turning his head to blink tiredly at his brother. “And John?”

“Polly’s gone off to visit Ada, John’s out in the Garrison and Finn’s gone to bed.”

With a nod of satisfaction, Tommy heaves himself up, stumbling before righting himself. He presses his lips together. “Goodnight, then Arthur.”

“Night, Tom,” Arthur says. “Do you need help getting up?”

Making a noise, Tommy waves his hands a bit before shuffling towards the stairs. “No, it’s fine, just… be ready for tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Arthur says, watching Tommy drag himself up the stairs. “What did you do, anyways? Like, the specifics?”

“I’ll tell you in the morning,” Tommy says, voice distant. He’s reached his door, now. “Family meeting at breakfast.”

His bedroom door shuts with a soft click as Arthur relaxes into the settee with a murmur. “This is going to be a fucking riot.”

_____________

“Who the fuck is Alfie Solomons?” John asks the next morning. Arthur and Polly share a glance as Tommy prepares himself for an explanation. “And why the fuck did I not know about this sooner?”

“He’s a Jew from Camden Town,” Tommy says, remembering Alfie’s mentioning of his heritage. “Runs a distillery and some other things. A big name in London, from what I’ve heard. I met him when I was making that deal with Kimber about the legal betting pitches a couple of weeks ago and Solomons popped up. Gave me an address and told me to come up for business.”

“Was he making a pass at you?” John says, squaring his shoulders. Tommy rolls his eyes. 

“No, he wasn’t making a pass at me. I went to the address he gave yesterday and what we talked about was purely business.”

“So he wants us for protection and investment?” Polly says. She taps the ash out her cigarette end. “And you didn’t ask us if we were okay with this before making the decision.”

“Yes,” Tommy states matter of fact. “We’ll deal with him when the time comes, but for now just do what I say.”

“What about the Kimber situation?” Arthur says, finally speaking up. “We haven’t dealt with him yet.”

“Next week is when we strike,” Tommy says. “We aren’t telling anybody else until two days before, so not a word out of you lot ‘till then, got it?”

There’s nodding all round the table before Arthur and John disperse, leaving Polly and Tommy alone at the table. 

“You’re interested in him aren’t you?” Polly asks, not looking up from her newspaper. Tommy turns to her. 

“What?”

“Solomons; you’re interested in him,” Polly repeats, looking up at him. “I can tell.”

Tommy doesn’t deny it, knows he can’t lie his way out of this one. Polly’s got fifth sense or something akin to that when it comes to the Shelby family and their secrets. When it comes to anyone and their secrets, really. “I’m not sure.”

Polly makes a sound, a little laugh. “Since when have you been unsure about anything, Thomas?”

Tommy doesn’t know the answer to that either. He mulls over it later on in the afternoon, when he’s left alone to his own thoughts and devices, and realises that he hasn’t been this unsure about anything since before the war, since before he saw the worst humanity can offer.

He wonders whether Solomons has been in the war, has seen the things Tommy’s seen, breathed the same stench. It calls for some research, a distraction from haunting thoughts, and Tommy embraces it greatly as he makes some phone calls and decides.

_____________

There’s a knock on his door a week later, a couple of days before Black Star Day, when Kimber and his men are set to be dealt with. Tommy’s going over some paper’s and moves to get up, but Ada’s already going for the door, shooting Tommy a look as she passes him by.

She’s been visiting them for the past couple of days since Karl’s birth and Freddie’s arrest, hellbent on getting her mate out jail. It’s been a stressful situation, to say the least, but Polly’s dealing with it and Tommy’s already come up with a way to get Freddie out so it doesn’t matter much, except that Ada keeps on sending looks in Tommy’s way that makes the latter shift a bit in place. 

“Who is it?” Tommy calls out when a minute passes and Ada hasn’t come in. There’s murmurings from the entry way, and a high pitched giggle coming from Ada. Tommy frowns and repeats himself. “Ada, who is it?”

“Alfie Solomons!” Ada calls back, voice coming closer. There’s heavy footsteps following her and Tommy gets up from where he’s sitting. “Says he knows you.”

Before he can say anything, Ada’s coming in with Alfie in tow, cane making a thudding noise as he shuffles in. 

“Mr. Shelby!” Alfie says, tipping his hat politely. Ada let’s out another giggle and Tommy wonders what’s up with her. “How are you?”

“Fine, thank you,” Tommy says, giving a curt little nod before settling down back in his chair. Alfie’s staring at him intently and Tommy clears his throat and shifts his gaze to the chair in front of him. “Have a seat.”

There’s a beat of silence before Alfie’s suffering forward again, sitting down with a pleased little murmur. “Cute little place you’ve got here.”

“Why are you here?” Tommy asks, cutting to the mark. None of his business partners have ever come to his home, but Alfie’s been doing a lot of things differently from the few weeks Tommy’s known him.

Alfie blinks at him and leans forward again. He hasn’t taken off his hat and coat. “I came to see how things are going.”

Tommy raises an eyebrow, and sends Ada a glance. Rolling her eyes, she moves back, shutting the door with a soft click and quiet mutterings. Once she’s left, Alfie speaks up again.

“I got a message from someone that you’re planning to get rid of Kimber and his boys three days from now.” 

Tommy stares, face betraying nothing. “And?”

“And I came to see how things are going,” Alfie repeats. He leans back, this time, crossing his ankles. “You’re doing an awful lot of things in such short time, Mr. Shelby. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“Well,” Tommy sniffs. “If that’s all you came to say you can be on your way now. You’ll know the outcome soon enough, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Alfie looks at Tommy again, in that intense way of his. It leaves the omega a bit breathless, a bit hotter than he was before. “You’ve got a rat amongst your comrades.”

“Thank you,” Tommy says, cutting in before Alfie can say anything else. He gets up and moves to the door, already thinking about who they are and how he’ll deal with them. “If you’ll be leaving now, I have some business to attend to.”

“Aren’t you going to invite me to tea?”

“No,” Tommy says curtly, walking to the entrance hall and opening the door. “I’m busy.”

There’s a moment where Tommy thinks Alfie’s going to turn violent, like so many of the alphas Tommy’s met, like his own father, even. 

He doesn’t though, just gives a little shrug and gets out the chair, shuffling towards the opened door and giving a final nod to Tommy. “Good bye, Mr. Shelby, nice talk we had.”

Tommy doesn’t say anything, can’t say anything, and instead shuts the door to Alfie’s retreating back.


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updated!!! I'm so sorry it took this long guys, exams just finished and I ruined my laptop and had to get it fixed (it involved tape and chocolate milk, that's all I can say). The laptop's still in the shop, but I've got this fic in Google Drive, so thank god for the internet, eh? Anyroad, I hope you enjoy the update (and don't worry, I plan on getting them together, I've been writing snippets of their relationship in between exams and I'm itching to expand on domestic fluff).
> 
> As you can see, the author’s changed. I can explain. My real account is fiveaces, and I've been using a friend's account to post this fic (they were the reason I even decided to post this here). We just decided to transfer the fic to my account, according them, my constant nagging about fic related ideas has exhausted them and they want me to stop calling them in inconvenient times about the latest chapter, updates, etc. I hope this doesn't hinder anyone. Also, don't worry, I really want to establish Alfie/Tommy, and it's gonna happen, guys, soon. It's just I tend to write slow burn a lot (my fault). 
> 
> As usual, have a lovely day.

Tommy’s in heat. 

It’s a fucking nightmare, to be honest. Campbell found the guns two days ago with Grace’s help, and the latter’s gone, left yesterday evening with an empty apology and Tommy’s broken trust in her hands. Danny’s dead on the street, blood pooling around his body, because Kimber, the shit, found out about Tommy’s plans. He tries not to think about the fact that Grace told him, really he does, but when he shoots the bastard alpha on the face, that’s all he can reminisce. Ada’s screaming her bloody head off once the first shot got fired, the baby wailing along, and in the midst of all that chaos Tommy’s thrown into what’s probably the worst heat of his life. 

Later, the doctor said it came from from stress, but Tommy’s never had something like this in the tunnels when he was in actual stress over whether or not he’d live to see another day or get raped or shot at, or maybe both, by some Jerry’s. 

“Aw, fuckin’ hell,” he groans, knees buckling as he falls to the ground. The stones are cold and slippery with rain, welcome against the hot skin of his cheek. “Shit.”

There’s a muttered curse from behind him and suddenly hands are pulling him up and he’s faced with Polly, worried frown and creased forehead, haphazardly shoving him into the house. The door locks in the distance and Tommy hazily wonders whether the police are here already, or maybe they ignored the gunshots. Not likely though. 

“Tommy,” Polly’s saying, hands holding him steady. He blinks at her, mind sludgy as he begins to slick, whimpering at the coolness of her hands. “Tommy, did you take the pill?”

“Yes,” he slurs, and he’s trying his best not to touch himself right now. Polly’s got a death grip on him and Arthur’s shouting at someone from the distance and the baby’s inside, too, crying louder if that’s even possible. “This morning.”

Polly’s scent turns sharper, more worried, and then she’s hauling him up with Ada, who’s somehow appeared next to them, to his bedroom. The windows are shut and the door’s locked and bolted from the outside and Tommy’s already starting to take his clothes off, desperate. There’s this sickening feeling unfurling in the pit of his belly, dark and dangerous, and he’s never felt it before. A sharp pain courses through his side and he falls back onto the bed, tears prickling behind his lids as he tries desperately to find some relief, slick coating the insides of his thighs, more of it getting on the sheets, slippery between his fingers.

He doesn’t remember what happened during that time, doesn’t want to remember.

_____________

“How are you?” Polly asks a week later. It’s been two days since the heat’s been over and the doctor’s gone, and all Tommy’s done in that time is mope around the house and immerse himself in work.

“Fine.” It’s not fine though, because now the others can’t look him in the eye without flushing, and he knows it won’t change anything, but there’s a niggling little voice in the back of his mind that says everything’s fucked for him; now they’ll remember he’s an omega. 

Polly gives him a look, knowing and calculated, but he ignores her. “Did I get any messages during the time?”

“No,” Polly says. “But that Solomons character did try coming in on the last day. He heard about the shootout with Kimber.”

“He didn’t scent anything, did he?” Tommy asks, leaning in, elbows resting on the table. There was one thing for his men to know about his heat, but another thing entirely for a potential ally, or enemy, to know. 

“No,” Polly repeats, eyebrow raised and the corner of her lips quirked up in that strange way of hers, like she knows something Tommy doesn’t. “Arthur and John sent him away before anything happened.”

“Okay,” Tommy says, and the breath he didn’t know he was holding back comes out in a rush. “Okay.”

“You seem oddly concerned about Solomon’s finding out,” Polly says, eyeing him. She raises a brow and the corner of her lips tilt up in that way of hers when she’s trying to figure out someone’s motives. “Care to explain yourself?”

“No,” Tommy replies, voice oddly gruff. He clears his throat and fishes out a cigarette, not caring that it’s too early to be smoking right now, never mind the headache that’s starting to form behind his eyes. “Nothing to explain there Pol. Jus’ wondering.”

Polly hums, lips still quirked and busies herself with the newspaper. Her head’s tilted, and Tommy knows that she’s very well aware of why he asked. “Whatever you say.”

He sighs and inhales a puff of smoke, looking out the kitchen window.  
_____________

“Alfie Solomons keeps on bothering me,” Ada says the minute she enters. Little Karl’s bundled up in her arms, cooing. He looks healthy for a three month old baby stuck in London, Tommy thinks. Chubby cheeked, little hands waving. “He insists on coming over everyday until you set up a meeting with him.”

“Oh,” Tommy says, and he blinks. “Tell him that I’m available this week Wednesday.”

“No,” Ada frowns, setting down Karl on the settee before shrugging off her coat. “You’re doing it, Thomas, I’m not your bloody messenger.”

Tommy thinks about telling her that he’s the head of this household, and anything he says goes. But Freddie’s been dead for a month and Ada’s been suspiciously level-headed about it. Arthur claims that it’s the calm before the storm, and Tommy is inclined to agree, because there’s a manic glint in Ada’s eyes when she turns to him. 

“Okay,” he says, nodding. “I’ll do it myself.”

Ada puffs up a bit, a little hint of pride in her smile and she scoops up Karl again, heading for the pantry. “You don’t have any of that apricot jam, do you? I’ve been wanting it recently, couldn’t find any in London, fucking slum of a city it is, anyways.”

“In the kitchen where it usually is,” Tommy replies offhandedly, making his way to his office, already crafting a letter to Alfie in his head. He thinks about telling him to come here, in Birmingham, but decides against it. He needs to get out of the city, anyways, the smog giving him constant headaches. London won’t be any better though, but it’s a change of scenery.

“Do you want any tea?” Ada asks, head popping through his door. She’s got red lipstick on, bright against the paleness of her skin. “Or do you want to brood in silence?”

“Tea would be fine, thanks,” Tommy says, and ducks his head, trying to hide a smile. God, he’s missed Ada like crazy, her being the only one who seems to understand Tommy’s reluctancy to mate, his urgent need to get on with business and make sure that everything’s in his control.

“Okay,” Ada says, and heads back to the pantry. Soon enough Tommy hears the whistle of the kettle and the little murmurs baby Karl makes. No one else is in the parlour, it’s too early in the morning for betting, and he relaxes against his chair, taking out a pen and paper. He needs to get on with setting up a meeting with Alfie Solomons, after all, he can’t have the alpha showing up at random hours of the day and bothering Ada. She’s already pissed off enough as it is.

_____________

“Mr. Solomons,” Tommy greets when he’s seated in Alfie’s office. The distillery is particularly busy today, a big order had just come in a day ago, Ollie had explained. 

“Mr. Shelby!” Alfie beams, arms open wide. He’s sat behind his desk, not wearing a waistcoat this time, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Half of his face is lit up from the overhanging lights, the other half shadowed. “You finally came!”

“We did set up a meeting,” Tommy replies, accepting the tumbler of whiskey he’s promptly handed. He takes a sip and sighs. “As per your request.”

“Yes, yes,” Alfie nods, hands coming to fold on the desk. He leans in, voice lowering “How are you feeling, Mr. Shelby?”

Tommy blinks, putting his glass on the desk. “Fine.”

“Good,” Alfie nods again, leaning forward a bit more till his chest is pressed up against the edge of the desk. “I hadn’t heard from you for months.”

“That’s because I was busy dealing with things back home.”

“Yes, I heard about that,” Alfie replies, a corner of his lips quirked up in amusement. His eyes glint, and in the light of the room, Tommy can barely make out the flash of teeth behind his beard. “The police, too.”

“Really?” Tommy says, voice laced in sarcasm, tilting his head. “I hadn’t noticed, you know, what with the shit they’re stirring up back there.”

Letting out a low chuckle, Alfie finally leans back on his chair, arms crossing over chest. It makes the sleeves of his shirt pull tight across his biceps and Tommy swallows, shifting in place. “Very funny, Mr. Shelby—can I call you Thomas?”

Tommy blinks again. “Yes.”

“Okay, then, Thomas. Call me Alfie, will you?” Tommy nods. Alfie's smile widens, if possible. “Since we’re on a first name basis, Thomas, can you tell me why you couldn’t come that first week after Kimber’s death?”

“No,” Tommy snaps immediately, straightening up. He scowls. “None of your business Mr.Solom—Alfie.”

“Thomas, you do have to understand that since I’m investing in the Shelbys I want to know what’s going about, yeah? And since you’re the head and all, I come to you for information,” Alfie says, surprisingly patient. “And you, Thomas, weren’t available for a week-- and then months-- after a major occurrence, I do think that it’s my business to know what’s going on.”

“It’s nothing that concerns you, Alfie,” Tommy repeats, meeting the alpha’s gaze head on. “I was stunted for a couple of days after, mourning the death of a friend.”

“Daniel Owen?”

“Daniel Owen,” Tommy confirms. It’s true, though, after his heat dissipated, he’d arranged a proper funeral for Danny. He’d drunk to his friend’s death two hours after he’d cleaned himself up, avoiding the concerned glances Arthur kept on shooting him every five seconds. “He was shot by Kimber.”

“My condolences,” Alfie says. He seems to relax into his chair, giving up on grilling Tommy, and the omega’s glad. It wouldn’t do with Alfie being reminded that Tommy can indeed get into heats, that Tommy’s technically supposed to be in the bottom of the social ladder, despite being a war hero, despite expanding the Peaky’s day by day. 

“What else do you want to talk about?” Tommy asks after some minutes of silence, during which Alfie stared at him with a look in his eyes Tommy can’t quite place. “Showing up at my sister’s door for three months to arrange a meeting, only to ask me where I was for a week isn’t what you exactly wanted to talk about, is it?”

“True,” Alfie chuckles, amused. “You’re quite the clever one aren’t you, Thomas?”

“I try,” Tommy replies, dry, and gives a little smile. “I have someplace to be afterward, Alfie, so you better get on with it.”

“Right,” Alfie says, and then he clears his throat, shifting. “What have you heard of Darby Sabini?”

“Not much,” Tommy replies, shrugging. “I don’t have a lot of going ons in London.”

“You’re about to, Thomas,” Alfie says, and his lips curl up in a slow smile. It makes Tommy heat up, his shirt collar suddenly stifling, the skin of his neck hot. “Have another drink, will you? This might take a while.”

Tommy nods, getting up and moving to the drinks tray, ready to pour himself another glass of whiskey. “Go on.”


	9. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Mentions of Rape and Dubious Consent when Sabini enters the picture. If you don't want to read it, check the end notes for a brief (and safe) summary on that specific interaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally managed to update ahead of time! I was struck with sudden inspiration as I was shown pictures of Cillian Murphy by a loving fan (of his).
> 
> Also, just wanted to inform you that I most likely won't be updating for the next couple of weeks. I have projects that need to be completed in that amount of time, and I can't hold them off any longer. 
> 
> I'm really pleased with the chapter, as it leaves room wide open for Alfie/Tommy relationship progression so that's super chill. I took the advice of following the show, but then I realised I skipped a bunch of things and now I'm loosely following the show and eventually I'll basically reel off it all together.
> 
> A quotation from Season 2, Episode 1 is used in this chapter. It is said by Arthur Shelby, and shall be italicized. 
> 
> Thanks for all the lovely support, and please excuse any mistakes in this fic overall. I don't have a beta.

“Sabini’s a fucking scumbag,” Alfie begins, heaving a great sigh and leaning back on his seat. He shifts around, trying to get comfortable, and Tommy swallows a mouthful of whiskey when he sees the way Alfie’s shirt strains against his biceps. Fuck. “I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me.”

“I figured,” Tommy replies, the corner of his mouth quirking up in amusement. Alfie sounds petulant, as if he can’t believe that someone has the gall to cross his nerves. “What else besides the obvious dislike?”

Alfie looks at him for a long time, and Tommy begins to wonder whether the alpha’s got a thing for staring down others. Whether it’s an intimidation technique or just a habit. Maybe it’s neither. “I want him gone.”

Tommy raises a brow, something he’s been doing a lot these days, and finishes the rest of his glass, sighing pleasantly at the sting on the back of his throat. “Is that all?”

“Well, not really,” Alfie says, raising his shoulders. It isn’t a shrug, per say, but it’s not an acknowledgement either. It’s almost sheepish, actually. “I need to give you more information, don’t I?”

“I can just find it myself.”

“But what’s the fun in that?” Alfie grins. “If we’re meant to work together, we’ve got to _communicate_ , Tommy. That’s the first step in every healthy relationship.”

“This isn’t a relationship,” Tommy says without thinking, and then flushes when Alfie looks at him again in _that_ way. Like he knows every single one of Tommy’s secrets, even if they’re relatively new to each other. “It’s business.”

“Business relationships exist,” Alfie defends calmly. “Every thing is a relationship, to be honest, if it involves people — good or bad. Even being alone with yourself is a relationship of sorts.”

“Didn’t know you were a psychologist, Solom- Alfie,” Tommy teases, momentarily forgetting that they’re on a first name basis. Maybe it is a relationship; Tommy rarely calls people he doesn’t trust by their first name. Does he trust Alfie? He doesn't know, not yet at least. “I don’t see a degree anywhere, though.”

Alfie smiles, amused. “Part-time,” he says encouragingly, getting up and moving to the window. He looks out, arms behind his back before turning to Tommy. “Just to be clear, you do know that I’m not a psychologist, right?”

Tommy rolls his eyes heavenward, and wonders how one man can be so intelligent and yet stupid at the same time. It’s a rare talent, and Alfie’s seemed to have acquired it. “Yes, I know.”

“Good,” Alfie nods, and then looks out the window again. “It’s crucial you know that. Psychology is important, I don’t want people to go around making wrong assumptions and the like.”

“Didn’t peg you to be a supporter of the sciences,” Tommy says, breath hitching minutely in his throat when Alfie turns back to him, a slow smile stretching across those plush lips. “Thought you were more about the brute strength and all that. Being an alpha and all.”

“Not every one’s like that, you know,” Alfie says, ignoring the stereotype Tommy had thrown at him. Not that it was much of a stereotype anyways. He moves so he’s standing a few feet away from Tommy, not bothering to go behind his desk, instead staying out in the open. Tommy knows there’s a gun in one of the drawers, and wonders whether Alfie’s ever used it. Whether Alfie would ever use it on him. “Besides knowledge is important. It keeps you from getting killed.”

There’s a long, tense moment where Tommy thinks that they’re finished, but he still remains stuck to his chair. Alfie’s far enough that Tommy doesn’t have to tilt his head up to meet his eyes from where he’s sitting, and something warm starts to flicker in his belly. Tommy’s spent all his life having to look up at alpha’s, and here’s one standing far enough away that Tommy’s on level staring ground as him, even when he’s sitting and Alfie’s standing. It’s a nice feeling, looking at someone as an equal. 

“Is that all?” Tommy breaks the silence, and Alfie blinks and shakes his head, as if he got lost in his thoughts during their little staring match. 

“No,” Alfie says, and then he gives another smile to Tommy, smaller this time, more private. “I haven’t relayed any information to you, have I?”

“Get on with it then,” Tommy says, and he tries not to grumble too much, having come to the realisation that he’s been unwittingly swept in a wave of what one might call ‘friendly banter’. It’s shocking, to be honest. “Stringing me along like that isn’t going to do you any favours, may I add. Don’t beat around the bush with me.”

Alfie smile morphs into a grin, sharp and wicked, something dangerous glinting in those eyes of his. “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

Tommy tries not to shudder, the warm feeling in his belly sparking something fierce.  
_____________

Arthur blinks at Tommy, mouth hanging open dumbly, and the omega’s got half the mind to tell him to shut it before anything unsavoury flies into it. He doesn’t though, instead letting Arthur suffer for all the constant nagging he’s rained down upon Tommy ever since he’s started to meet up with Alfie — to discuss pure business, mind you. 

“We’re doing what now?” he sputters, eyes wide and hair hanging over his forehead in a decidedly sweaty fringe. _Finally_ , Tommy thinks, rolling his eyes in exasperation. _He speaks_.

“The Eden Club,” Tommy says instead, trying not to let the irritation he’s feeling seep into his voice. Arthur’s had a glass too many, and really, it’s Tommy’s own fault he chose today of all days to talk to him and John about it. But it couldn’t be put off any longer. “We’re going to raid it and claim it as our own.”

“Oh shit,” John says, practically vibrating off his seat. “This is going to be fun. Can we bring guns?”

“No,” Tommy says immediately. He shoots a glare at John who in turn as the decency to look a little sheepish. “No guns.”

“Fine,” John pouts, and Tommy has half the mind to tell him he’s an adult, for gods sake, with children and a pregnant mate. “Take all the fun out of it.”

“I’m not having any shootings happening, there’s innocent people in that place. We just need to send a message to Darby Sabini,” Tommy says, suddenly wishing that Polly was here. Alas, she’s gone off visiting Ada in London again. It seems like every other day Polly’s off visiting his sister, and Tommy’s half-convinced they’re conspiring against him, if the knowing looks Polly shoots Tommy when she comes home have anything to say about it. Tommy’s going to figure it out…eventually.

“Sabini?” Arthur pipes in, breaking Tommy out of his internal lamentations that seem to occur more and more frequently each passing day. “Who the fuck is Sabini?” 

“Italian gang leader,” Tommy replies, and takes a long pull of his beer. “Practically owns half of London, and he won’t allow Alf—Solomons’ bookies to work the Epsom Races.”

“Christ,” Arthur says, and he leans heavily against the table, running a hand through his sweaty hair that glistens in the dull lamplight. The Garrison’s technically closed down for the night, but ever since Tommy gave Arthur legal ownership, the alpha’s been staying till the early hours of the morning with a couple of friends, passing bottles of liquor between themselves, trying to forget what happened during the War. Tommy’d join them, but the alphas, even the betas at times, get rowdy, and Tommy doesn’t want to be the receiver of leers when he’s let his guard down— even with Arthur in the room. “So we’re doing Solomons’ dirty work now?”

“We had a deal with him didn’t we?” Tommy says, stiffening at the nasty tone Arthur’s gotten. He doesn’t know why his defences are suddenly raised, and chalks it up to a mixture of tiredness and sexual frustration--of what, Tommy has no idea of. “Besides, it’ll benefit us, too. We’re in a partnership with Solomons, remember?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Arthur mutters. “How can I forget? You went behind our backs to make that deal.”

“It wasn-“ Tommy begins, frustrated, but is cut off by a loud groan from John’s side of the table. 

“I have to go now,” John says, stretching and checking the time on his pocket watch. “Esme’s been expecting me for an hour, now, and if I don’t hurry home anytime soon, I’ll get a right earful.” He waves vaguely at Tommy and Arthur’s direction, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. “Sort yourselves out without me yeah?”

“Like you’re any help,” Tommy mutters, and ignores John’s wayward ‘fuck off’, instead opting to turn to Arthur. The alpha looks at him behind bloodshot eyes. “We’re a team, Arthur. I can’t do this without you. Are you in or not?”

Arthur looks at him for a long time, long enough that Tommy’s thoughts begin to wander back to the meeting he had with Alfie, back to the morning when he’d had a warm cup of tea placed in front of him by an aunt who's most likely plotting his future with shrewd eyes. “Fine,” Arthur sighs, sinking down into his chair. “I’m in.”

Tommy heaves a sigh of gratitude. _Thank God_ , he thinks. 

_____________

The Eden club is, was, a jazzy place, with bright lights and loud music and all sorts of colourful people milling around doing all sorts of colourful things.

Tommy’s kind of glad that they’re all gone, too loud and bright for his tastes. He shares a smile at Arthur who’s standing on the stage, behind the microphone. Arthur sends back a bloody grin, clearly high off the violence and drugs. 

_“This place is under new management by order of the Peaky Blinders,”_ he had crowed, holding a broken man by the scruff of his neck in one hand, a broken glass bottle in the other. Tommy couldn’t have been prouder.

He tries not to think about how Alfie would smile at the news, pleased, but when he goes to bed that night, anticipating the meeting they’ll have tomorrow, that’s all he _can_ think about. It’s starting to become an issue, one Tommy isn’t fully equipped to handle, not when he’s still healing over Greta, the only alpha who’d ever shown him a semblance of respect outside the gang. 

“Get yourself together,” Tommy whispers into the darkness, the air still thick with opium smoke from the day before. He rarely opens his window, making smoke build up in the room until Polly bursts in and airs it out at inopportune moments (Once she’d done it whilst Tommy was preparing to take a bath, she’d stormed in just as he’d dropped the towel. To say it was horrifying experience was an understatement, he puts it right up there with the time he saw John and Esme going at it like animals). “Don’t go in over your head.”

Still, he falls asleep with the thoughts of how a beard would feel against his skin. 

_____________

He’s walking down an alleyway when he gets jumped, jolting him right out of his thoughts on telling Lizzie to call Ada, asking her when she’ll be visiting. 

He struggles valiantly, shoving off a man, an alpha, before he’s accosted by another one. Each alpha he tries to throw off is replaced by a bigger one, until Tommy’s buckled under the weight of the biggest, an unrelenting pressure on his back as he’s forced to lie down on the ground, gasping for breath.

“Fuck,” he hisses, trying not to whimper at the shots of pain running down and across his body. “Fuck.”

“Fuck indeed,” a voice drawls from the shadows, accented and unfamiliar. A man steps out, another alpha, and Tommy hazily wonders how many more fucking alphas are going to show up. “Looks like we finally get to meet, Mr. Shelby.”

“Who are you,” Tommy manages to grind out between gritted teeth, and he wheezes when he’s suddenly pulled up by the back of his neck, body going slack at the pressure there. The nape of the neck is an omega’s weak spot, making them pliant and vulnerable. Tommy’s never been gripped there before. Not ever. He whines in fear, the noise involuntary, and heat spreads across his cheeks at the dark chuckle the alpha man lets out. He seems to be the leader, if the fancy clothes and cane are indicators. 

“I’m Darby Sabini, love,” the man— Sabini, says, smiling cruelly at the way Tommy’s eyes droop as he’s gripped harder. “The alpha who owns the club you’re little gang of misfits raided.”

Tommy struggles to reply, but he only barely manages to let out another sound, weak and small. Sabini laughs again, louder, head thrown back and shoulders shaking in sick glee. “Looks like the omega can’t fight back, boys! Didn’t expect any less from him, poor thing can’t even handle a little run in, let alone a proper fight .”

Tommy wants to scream at them, tell them that of course he can’t fight back, not when he’s subdued to the point where he can barely utter a word, let alone string together coherent sentences, but all he manages to do is move a little, hands twitching. The alpha gripping him shakes him like a rag doll, and the others laugh at the way Tommy’s head lolls to the side at the act of sudden violence.

Sabini gestures grandly at Tommy, chest puffed out and disgusting moustache raised to frame his disgusting smile. “Mr. Shelby here further proves that omegas aren’t born to be leaders,” he states, turning his gaze to Tommy. “Only meant to be breeders.”

 _Fuck you_ , Tommy seethes in his head. It’s buzzing with static and red, hot rage. _Fuck you to the ends of hell and back._

“Let’s say we give him a little present, boys?” Sabini says, tone raising up as if in a question. He steps in and looks at Tommy with a perverse glint in his eyes, reaching out a hand to run a finger down the length of Tommy’s cheekbone, splashed with red from his anger. “Show him where his place is. Bet he hasn’t gotten a good fuck since forever, eh? No wonder he’s been running around making deals and wreaking havoc.”

Tommy shakes, letting out another pathetic sound as the rest of the alphas draw in a circle around him, the one gripping him tugging him closer to his chest so Tommy can’t help but feel the press of his erection against the backs of his thighs. God, he wishes he was dead.

“You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you?” Sabini continues, acknowledging the fear in Tommy’s eyes with a malicious grin. “All pale skin and big, blue eyes. Wearing fancy suits and the like. I bet you’d look real good with a cock stuffed in you, too.”

Tommy feels bile rise up in his throat, and despite the grip he’s in, he vomits down the front of Sabin’s dark suit, tears pricking the corner of his eyes. This is why he doesn’t like people remembering he’s an omega. This is why.

“Fucking hell!” Sabini shouts, eyes going from perverse intentions to boiling anger. He brings up a hand and slaps Tommy, skin on skin contact making a sharp cracking sound in the silence of the alley. Tommy’s cheek throbs, and the alphas around him shift closer. “Think you can go around ruining other people’s suits, bitch?

Tommy’s thrown onto the ground, mercifully released from his grip, and between counting his breaths and trying to calm down his racing heart, he manages to gasp out “I can do whatever the fuck I want.”

Sabini glowers down at him, and Tommy’s knees and hands ache from where he’s sprawled on the ground. Sabini reels back a foot, intentions clear on his ugly rat-face, but just before he can bring it swinging at Tommy, a shrill whistle pierces through the air, shouts of “Stop, Police!” ringing in the night air.

Tommy’s never been more glad to hear the familiar thuds of law echoing down the alley. The last thing he sees before fainting from shock is Chester Campbell’s grim face looming over him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Summary for the Sabini Interaction™: 
> 
> Tommy gets jumped by Sabini and his goons in an alleyway, and is threatened by them (there is also violence, Tommy gets slapped, but not beaten). Just before anything drastic happens, the police come and Tommy sees Chester Campbell before he passes out.


	10. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TW: There are mentions of rape, so be warned!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, I finally managed to update after god knows how long! I hope you guys enjoy the chapter, I kind of played around with some concepts and ideas for characters and stuff.
> 
> Anyroad, updates will be spontaneous as always, and feedback is welcomed with open arms! (Just don't be too harsh if you dislike something. Constructive criticism is the key, eh?)
> 
> Also, I noticed I have some typos in previous chapters, but I'm far too busy to fix them right now. I'll get to them, eventually. x))

He wakes up to sunlight hitting his face and a warm body next to his. 

The room is not his own, and Tommy bites back the panicked shout that bubbles up his throat. He tries to calm down, slipping back into the subconscious area of his mind, where everything is fine and he’s in control of what’s happening to him. The sheets are cool against his skin, softer than his own, and Tommy closes his eyes for a moment of bliss, focusing on the feeling of his toes curling into the fabric. When he opens them, he’s met with a familiar face.

“Alfie?” he asks, voice hazy, sounding far off. It echoes across the room, makes him blink in surprise when it bounces off the walls and swings back, the bed shaking gently in response. “What the fuck?” 

The bed shakes again, and Alfie murmurs something in his sleep, beard scratchy from where it’s rubbing against the soft skin of Tommy’s cheek. His arms tighten around Tommy’s waist, pulling him closer so their legs are tangled together; and really, Tommy should be pushing himself away, but it’s much too warm and pleasant to do anything other than make confused noises in the buttery sunshine air. 

“Alfie?” Tommy calls again, causing a mild ruckus with the dresser. A picture frame slides off, thudding dully against a soft carpet and Tommy wonders why Alfie’s room has a carpet. Why it has anything at all, really, because he half-expected the man to sleep in his office, if the amount of time he spends prattling on about his brewery has anything to say. “Jesus, Alfie, wake the fuck up.”

Alfie lets out another sleepy murmur, shifting Tommy in his arms so his head tucks perfectly into the crook of his neck. Alfie’s scent hits him with force, the warm comfort of home and safety releasing him from the tension in his muscles. Tommy’s not sure, but he’s never felt quite so content in his life than he is currently in these few seconds, even if the situation is bizarre and very unprecedented. 

It’s better to go about exploring in a cool, collected manner, Tommy decides after a short while of bewildered silence, rather than panicking and most likely having Alfie pull out a gun from underneath his pillow. The man fought in the War, there’s no telling what he’s capable of when frightened. 

Slipping out of Alfie’s arms is easier than anticipated, the alpha merely hums in dissatisfaction before smacking his lips and turning to lie on his stomach, nearly knocking Tommy backwards when he sprawls. Honestly, it’s cuter than it should be, and Tommy scowls to himself when he catches his train of thought wandering off to uncharted territory.

Find out where he is, that’s the mission; not cooing over Alfie Solomons in his sleep.

The first thing he notices when he gathers his bearings, the soles of his bare feet pressed flush against the carpet — and really it’s even softer than it looks— is that there’s an entire array of pictures decorating the wall where the dresser’s up against. 

Upon closer inspection, Tommy realises most of them are family photos, the first couple of which seem to be old and worn, well fingered at the edges where the monochrome colours smudge to a fuzzy grey. The people in the pictures are unfamiliar, faces Tommy’s never seen before, except that of a little boy with eyes startlingly similar to Alfie’s. 

It’s a moment and a half later that Tommy, with a double take, realises that the boy _is_ Alfie. 

“Oh,” he breathes, shocked. The picture shakes in response, baby Alfie grins back at him. “Oh.”

“‘Oh’ what?” a little voice asks from the door, and Tommy jumps, whirling around to be met with a little boy. He nearly steps on the picture frame that’d fallen. “Mumma?”

Tommy sputters. _“Mumma?”_

The little boy blinks up at him, all big eyes and chubby cheeks, and something stirs deep in Tommy’s heart, this desire to protect him no matter what. He’s not wholly sure where it’s coming from, and he doesn’t want to explore it further, far too preoccupied with wondering why the kid’s calling him _mother_ , of all things. “Yes. Mumma,” is the frank reply he gets instead.

From the bed, Alfie groans, and Tommy turns around just in time to meet his eyes. Alfie smiles at him, soft. “Good morning, darling.”

Tommy sputters again, cheeks reddening. _“Darling?”_ he squeaks. “Since when did you start calling me _darling?”_

“Don’t be silly,” Alfie rolls his eyes, fond. “It’s far too early in the morning to be playing these games.”

“It’s ten, Papa,” the kid says, amused, and how old is he? Four, five? From the way his words slur together Tommy’s putting his estimate there, and really, he sounds far too mature for a five year old. “You and Mumma slept in.”

There’s that word again. _Mumma._

“We did, didn’t we?” Alfie frowns, and he sounds completely besotted with the little tyke, eyes all soft and gentle like Tommy’s never seen them. “You didn’t get into any trouble then, did you, Matthew?”

Matthew shakes his head, and his too-blue eyes go from Alfie to Tommy, imploring. “I’ve been good, I promise.”

Alfie beams, sleepy-warm and content and it makes something flutter in Tommy’s chest. “There’s a lad. C’mon then, lets get some food in you, eh?”

Matthew hums and peers curiously at Tommy. He looks worried, even. “Mumma’s acting strange.”

“Mum always acts strange,” Alfie says, and his eyes slide over to Tommy, twinkling. “It’s in his blood. Right, darling?”

Tommy makes an affronted noise in the back of his throat and Alfie laughs, pleased. 

“C’mon, Matthew, run along downstairs. I’ll be out in a second.”

Matthew nods, and makes his way to the door, sending one last look at Tommy over his shoulder before leaving the room. He seems far too independent for a five-year old, but there is still that air of innocence about Matthew that Tommy never had when he was his age. 

When he’s sure that Matthew’s out of earshot, Tommy turns to Alfie, frown in place. “You keep on calling me darling.”

Alfie blinks at him from where he’s at the wash stand. “I’ve been calling you darling for years.”

“Since when?” Tommy demands, flushing. If this is some sick game Alfie’s gotten him in after he’s experienced a traumatic encounter with Sabini, the very man they were plotting against, then Tommy is ready to cut all ties. 

“Since we’ve been together,” Alfie replies. He sounds so sure, like he believes what he’s trying to peddle to Tommy, and the omega’s not going to let it stand.

“Don’t be idiotic,” Tommy scowls, crossing his arms over his chest. He suddenly realises he’s only wearing an undershirt and pants. “We’ve only just met not two months ago.”

This time Alfie frowns. “If this is a game you’re trying to play here, love, it’s not funny.”

“Game!” Tommy cries, furious. “You’re the one who’s playing a game! Sabini nearly fucking _raped_ me yesterday!”

A deathly silence overtakes the room when the dreaded word flutters out from behind trembling lips, blanketing the room in a stifling black. Something darkens in Alfie’s eyes, dangerous and cold. Tommy swallows and takes a step back.

“Sabini’s dead, Tom,” Alfie says, and despite the coldness in his eyes his voice has gotten soft, gentle, like he’s trying to make Tommy feel _safe_. “But if someone tried to take advantage of you, I—“

“Sabini’s not dead! I saw the bastard a couple of hours ago! He slapped me!” Tommy cuts in, pointing to his face. Alfie only looks at him, the darkened stare starting to mix in with worry. Tommy turns to the mirror, ready to see the bruise in all its full glory after a couple of hours, but when his reflection stares back at him, all he sees is his normally pale skin. No bruise in sight. 

“Are you sure you’re alright, love?” Alfie asks, tentative. He’s softened up considerably now, and takes a measured step towards Tommy. “You didn’t have a nightmare did you?”

“It was real,” Tommy says, stumbling back. “I— Sabini. He was _real.”_

“I know,” Alfie replies calmly. “But he’s gone now, bound for the scaffold he was not just a couple of years ago. Remember?”

Tommy makes a confused sound, his pulse thick and slow when he turns to meet Alfie’s eyes. Something heavy settles in his throat, like he’s being choked. “The kid,” Tommy whispers instead, deathly quiet. “Why is there a kid?”

Alfie stares back at him, wide eyed. All the darkness before is replaced with worry, apprehension. Maybe even a tiny bit of fear. “He’s our son, Tom,” Alfie says, scent thick with distress. “His name’s Matthew.”

“I know his name,” Tommy snaps, and a cold feeling washes over him, the edges of his vision getting blurry. Something starts buzzing in the background, faint at first, before it steadily overtakes his senses, making him feel like he’s drowning, breaths coming out short and quick, rabbit-paced. “I-I-we have a son?”

Alfie nods and takes one step forward, Tommy takes two steps back.

He doesn’t hear the tell-tale crunch of a picture frame being broken when he steps on it, far too preoccupied with the fact that he had a _baby._ That, somehow, he and Alfie Solomons—of all the alphas out there—settled down and raised a child together. It seems so wrong and so right at the same time and all Tommy can do is gasp loudly, clutching at his chest because his heart feels like it’s ready to burst from his ribcage, panic numbing the tips of his fingers and toes. 

He’s trembling, he belatedly realises, and looks up to see Alfie slowly inching his way towards him, hands out in a steadying gesture, eyebrows furrowed, scent thick with worry and fear. Tommy tries to move, but his feet feel stuck to the ground, leaden.

A dull ache starts to throb behind his eyelids, thick and sharp. Tommy groans, squeezing his eyes shut and clutching at his head.

A frightened “Tommy?” is all he hears before his mind turns dark, blissfully empty.

_____________

He wakes up to Polly fussing with his blankets. 

“Good,” is the first thing Polly says, firm, when Tommy’s fully opened his eyes. “You’re awake.”

“Where am I?” Tommy asks. He struggles to sit up, head throbbing. His mouth feels dry, throat parched, and he gratefully takes the glass of water Polly silently hands him.

“Home,” Polly replies, and sits back in the chair beside his bedside. “What were you doing, running around in dark alleys in the middle of the night?”

Tommy makes a questioning sound, looking over at her with a raised brow. “What’re you talking about?”

Polly stares at him like he’s an idiot, and Tommy tries not to squirm under her calculating gaze. “You don’t remember what happened, do you?” 

The last thing Tommy can recall at all, really, is Chester Campbell’s face. It’s hard to forget a face like that, especially after the hell he’d put Tommy through involving the guns and Freddie Thorne. He remembers Campbell looming over him, smirking, as if he was in on a joke Tommy didn’t know about. 

Suddenly, out of the fucking blue, it hits him like a freight train. _Sabini._

Everything else rushes back at him, the tiny little details of what happened that night overwhelming him to the point all he can do is clutch at the glass like it’s the only thing keeping him from slipping away to an unknown place.

“Oh no,” is all Tommy whispers, the weight of what happened finally settling on his shoulders. “Oh no.”

“It’s not your fault,” Polly says, and all Tommy can do is stare at her. “It’s not your fault.”

_____________

His time spent in bed was not a long one, but it felt like it dragged on for ages. By the time he was permitted to leave the house Tommy had grown agitated, restless. 

Somehow, in between all the chaos of the past couple of days — upon hearing what happened Arthur had become rampant with rage, having to be held back and watched over with wary eyes lest he do something daft like go out and face Sabini and his minions by himself — Alfie had stopped by for a quick visit. 

It wasn’t a big deal, but Tommy was far too much aware of the position they were in: him, sat up in bed, pale and withdrawn and Alfie standing awkwardly in the door way.

“We should discuss what happened once you’re better,” Alfie had said, and he looked at Tommy in that strange way of his again, like he could see right through him. “We can set up a time after, if you’d like.”

“Is it always business meetings with you lot?” Ada, who was in the room, had groused, making something warm flicker in Tommy’s chest. “Stopping by for a quick hello isn’t all it is, is it?”

“I’m afraid not,” Alfie had replied, and then he’d looked over at Tommy again, like he was genuinely concerned for his well-being. It reminded Tommy of Dream Alfie, Sandman Alfie who was all soft and open. “Well, I’ll be seeing you then.”

That was the end of that, and now Tommy’s off to London, a meeting set in a nondescript pub nestled in Camden Town.

At least it’s not Birmingham, and that’s all that matters in the end isn’t it? It may be his home, but Tommy’d rather not live out the rest of his life there. The whole world is laid out bare in front of him, and he wants to see it in a setting where he isn’t fighting for his life, for his rights. 

_____________

The pub is relatively empty when Tommy arrives. There’s a few other men there, mostly alphas, some betas. Tommy ignores their curious stares, busying himself with shrugging off his coat and hanging it up, instead.

“Sorry, love,” the bartender says, when Tommy reaches the counter. “We don’t serve omegas.”

“Too bad,” a voice pipes up from behind, and Tommy twists around to see Alfie, cane in hand, making his way towards them. “Because you’re serving him.”

The bartender gawks at them for a couple of seconds, his hands stopping their work, before Alfie snaps. “C’mon then, Jimmy, be a lad and get us a couple of drinks, eh?”

Jimmy looks hesitant, but follows his orders dutifully, casting a wary eye over to where Alfie leads Tommy, a booth in the back where no one can hear without getting caught. 

“Sorry about tha’,” Alfie says, and he grins. “It’s a bit backwards, this place. But it’s quiet, and that’s what’s important, yeah?”

Tommy makes a noncommittal noise back, contemplating on what Alfie just said: _it’s a bit backwards._ The words feel warm when he rolls them around his head, sweet and fresh. _It’s a bit backwards._ Tommy can’t help but smile, faint. 

The drinks arrive quickly, and Tommy takes a sip of his, glad to feel the familiar taste of beer and not the wine he sometimes gets when he’s in any other place besides _The Garrison._

“I know what happened,” Alfie says. He’s nursing his own beer, too, holding it between both his hands. The rings on his fingers glint in the low light. “Your aunt Polly told me.”

“Did she say anything else?” Tommy asks. Polly knew about the dream he’d had, instinctively, and she’d managed to wrangle the story out of him, eager to know the twisted fantasies his subconscious thought up. _("Dreams are important, Tom,"_ she’d wheedled when he’d refused initially. _"They reveal your deepest desires, tell you the future, even.")_

Alfie shakes his head. “No, just what Sabini did.”

Tommy nods, and suddenly, he has the urge to stop meeting Alfie’s eyes, shy. He glances down at his mug. “I’m still in, though.”

“You don’t have to be,” Alfie says. “Sabini’s a scumbag, I told you that. But I didn’t know he was this much a scumbag. Kind of pathetic, really, cornering a man when he’s alone and got no where to run.”

“Yeah, well,” Tommy replies. “That’s the shit we have to deal with if we want to make it in this world, aye?”

“Aye.”

They fall into a comfortable silence, occasionally sipping on their beers. Normally, Tommy’d down the whole thing and get up and leave, but something tells him Alfie’s got more to say. 

Finally, after ages, Alfie speaks up. “We can help each other, you know.”

“We’re already doing that,” Tommy says. Alfie shoots him a look, like he’s trying to tell him to not be so fucking obvious. 

“Not in the business sense per say.”

Tommy blinks, and the warm feeling he’d gotten in the beginning of their meeting starts dwindling down. “You want to fuck?” he says, blunt. 

“No!” Alfie falters. “I— we just pretend that we’re in a relationship, you know? It’ll be mutually beneficial for the both of us.”

Brain finally seeming to catch up, Tommy leans back in his seat. “So, you’re saying that if we pretend to be in a relationship, it’ll be good for the both of us?”

“Exactly!” 

Tommy aches to demand Alfie’s reasoning, why he brought it up now when he could’ve done so in the beginning. Instead, he says “If people think that I have an alpha, they’re going to lose all respect for me.”

He doesn’t know why he said it, but it feels good to get it out of his chest. 

“Or they’ll respect you more,” Alfie says. He brings up his hands placatingly when Tommy raises an eyebrow at him. “Face it, Tommy, the society we live in right now thinks mated omegas are more worthwhile than unmated ones.”

A dormant anger bubbles underneath his skin, and Tommy clenches a hand around his mug to stop from exploding. It’s not like anything Alfie’s saying is _wrong_. People do have more respect for mated omegas than unmated ones, all because they can tuck themselves into their beds at night, safe in the knowledge that those poor things are stuck under their alpha’s thumbs, bowing to their every whim and need. 

“That doesn’t mean it’s right,” Alfie continues. “But how else can you get into them high class establishments without at least having an alpha beside you?”

Tommy bites his lip, contemplative. Alfie doesn’t seem to be the type to assert his power around, at least not in the sense that Tommy’s used to. It would be easier, he thinks, to make his way to the top with Alfie beside him, their resources and dynamics used to their advantage. 

“I’ll think about it,” he says instead, and glances at Alfie through his lashes. “Though if I agree to this, we’re going to set boundaries.”

“Wouldn’t dream of anything less,” Alfie replies, and takes a sip of his beer, seemingly satisfied. Tommy takes a deep pull of his own.

Sandman Alfie visits his dreams later that night.


	11. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be my longest chapter yet, so there's that. 
> 
> I've got a tumblr now! It's fiveaceslike.tumblr.com and you can prompt me little ficlets/oneshots/fic ideas (or chapter ideas) over there! Thanks to Eug (@eisenarm on tumblr) for inspiring me to create my own account!
> 
> If you have any thoughts on concerns about this chapter, do comment on them, as it might help me improve on later ones and the like! Thanks for waiting so long for an update :))

“You’re not pulling my leg, are you?” Ada questions, moving with surprising speed to the drinks cart. Tommy shakes his head, sipping his well deserved glass of whiskey, sinking into the couch. 

“I’m not,” he replies, pressing the bottom of his whiskey glass to his forehead. The backs of his eyes throb with an oncoming headache, and Tommy supposes that drinking isn’t going to help ease the pain. “But don’t go around blathering it to the others.”

Ada whirls around, eyes bugged out, the hem of her dress whipping against her legs. “You haven’t told Polly yet? Or Arthur?”

“It’s just been a day or so, Ada,” Tommy sighs, rolling his eyes. “Arthur’s still muttering about murdering Sabini. If he found out about _this,_ well…”

“Yeah, yeah, I get it. But, _Christ,_ Tommy. You’ve got to say no.”

“I’ll think about it,” he argues. “Can’t just throw away opportunities like these.”

 _“Terrible opportunities,”_ Ada emphasises, taking a huge swallow of her drink. “Look, you’ve been in love before, haven’t you? So you, of all people, should know that tying yourself to someone you don’t have feelings for is a shit idea.”

“Don’t be daft,” Tommy frowns, ignoring the tug of his heart at the _don’t have feelings for._ He’s not sure, really, whether he’s interested in Alfie. Sometimes in his dreams, where Sandman Alfie has become a nightly visitor, Tommy thinks maybe he has a chance at _something._ But then dawn breaks and there’s another day to survive and all the “what ifs” have to be stowed away in the back of his mind. “It’s nothing personal. Purely business.”

“Business, business, business,” Ada scowls. “Honestly, Tom, sometimes I wonder whether you’ll die signing a contract or the like. You never, I don’t know, _relax.”_

“You’re sounding like Arthur, now.”

“Well, maybe Arthur’s right for once,” Ada says firmly. She’s turned so she’s facing Tommy, leaning against the desk and crossing her arms, fixing her best glare at him. “You’re going to die alone at this rate.”

“If it means I’m not some alpha’s fuck-toy, then I’m more than happy to take the chances,” Tommy snaps back, bristling. His face feels too hot, the blood underneath his skin buzzing with electricity. He has a sudden urge overtake him, an insistent thought whispering into the tumultuous space of his subconscious to just _scratch_ at himself till he’s bleeding. He ignores it, though, fisting the material of his trousers instead.

Ada softens up, the tense lines of her shoulders loosening. “You know that’s not what I meant, Tom.”

Tommy stays silent, looking at the shelf of books behind Ada’s shoulder instead.

“It’s going to drive you insane,” Ada continues. She really is his sister, Tommy muses, when she doesn’t flinch at the sudden coldness of his scent. “Pretending to be in love with Solomons when you’ll probably want to be with someone else.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he replies. Slowly, he lifts his gaze to catch Ada’s. “To be in a room full of people who don’t respect you because of your sta—“

“I do!” Ada cuts in haphazardly. “I do, Tommy, look at me! I joined the Communist Party for bigger reasons than keeping Freddie’s memory alive—hell, that wasn’t even a reason! I’m an omega! I know what it’s like to be stared at!”

“That’s not the whole bloody picture, Ada!” Tommy shouts, springing up, hands fisted at his sides and glaring at his little sister with all his worth. “You don’t understand because you aren’t me! You haven’t dug tunnels in the bloody war with alphas surrounding you! You haven’t feared rape every time you walk into a fucking room! Bloody hell, you haven’t even seen the looks they give me!” he spits, livid. “Like they’re _indulging_ me even though I’ve survived and done far more than they’ve ever dreamt up!”

“Then why the hell are you agreeing to this with Solomons?” Ada yells back, face turning deep scarlet, her entire body shaking. “If he’s like all those others!”

“He’s not!” Tommy cries, furious and irritated and terrified of his own feelings. “That’s the entire fucking point! The only time I’ve been treated worth my position is with Alfie!”

Abruptly, he stops, hands still balled into fists. From across the carpet, Ada goes quiet. The soft crackle of the fireplace shrouds the room in nervous anticipation, warm against the sudden chill that’s overtaken him. The air is thick from the burn of cigarette smoke, smouldering in the overfilling ashtray. Ada’s been going through them like wildfire. 

“I-I—,” he stumbles. His mouth moves slowly, the words weighted and bulky. “That—that was a mistake. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Said what?” Ada coos, eyebrows drawn in concern, forgetting the fact that she’d been getting yelled at not just a couple seconds ago. Being a mother’s made her gone soft, just like Pol. “The thing about Sol-Alfie?”

Tommy pulls in a deep breath, eyes squeezing shut at the sound of the name; it’s not like he’s in love or the like. No, that’s far too dangerous and complicated for someone like him. But—but he is _intrigued,_ in a sense of the word. Maybe even charmed, if he’s pushing it. “I don—just forget it, okay?”

“Bu—“

 _“Forget it,_ Ada,” Tommy grits out. He takes another deep breath when he sees her eyebrows draw in with concern. “I’m going home.”

“Wait!” Ada calls as Tommy picks up his things and shrugs on his coat. “You haven’t even finished your tea yet!”

He doesn’t answer, shutting the front door with a bang, trading the softly lit parlour of Ada’s London home for the cool air outside. His men are waiting by the car, scrambling to get themselves in order when they see him draw near. Their freshly lit cigarettes burn like stars on the black tarmac, shiny with twilight dew. 

“Too bloody late for tea,” Tommy mutters into the dark stillness, tugging his cap tight over his head. He’s going to go through with Alfie’s proposal, whether anyone likes it or not. 

_____________

He informs the others about his decision around the same time Polly’s yelling at them about Michael’s insistence to join the business. 

It’s a good way of shutting her up, Tommy thinks, when she stares at him open mouthed, mid-yell and one hand clutching protectively at Michael’s forearm.

“What?” she asks weakly, and from beside her, Michael struggles to break free from her unrelenting grip. Polly’s stronger than she looks though, Tommy’s own personal experience can attest to that, and after a few minutes Michael finally seems to give up. “You’re with Solomons, now?”

“No,” Tommy says patiently. “I’m _pretending_ to be with Solomons.”

Polly stares at him some more. Arthur, from behind her has his mouth open, too, looking gormless and very much like a fish. 

“You-you aren’t doing that,” he manages to squeeze out when Polly can’t seem to form words any further. Tommy quirks a brow at him. “That’s— no.”

“I’ve considered the possibilities and all of them point up,” Tommy informs. He catches John’s eyes, the only person in the room who isn’t gaping at him like he’s lost his head. “Seems like a waste to leave it there.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means that it’s happening,” Michael says, looking at Tommy dead in the eyes. There’s a calculated understanding around him, Tommy had recognised it the minute they first met. The kid wants to go places, wear shoes bigger than he can fill in, be _something._ Tommy respects that. “Let go of me, mum.”

“No,” Polly hisses, tugging him closer. She turns to Tommy, pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re going to regret this.”

“Maybe,” Tommy hums. “But I won’t know until it happens.”

“Christ,” Arthur moans, running a hand through his greased up hair. The sunlight coming in through the windows shows how unkempt he is, clothes rumpled and creased, dark circles smudged under his eyes. He’d started another fund, too. “You’re going insane.”

John pipes in, fishing out a cigarette and matchsticks from his pocket. “That was bound to happen at one point or another, though.”

“Christ,” Arthur moans again, stumbling closer towards the centre of the room. “Tommy think about what you’re doing. Seriously. _Think.”_

“It’s all I fucking do, Arthur,” Tommy scowls, reaching the last strands of his patience. “Don’t be thick, I’m not jumping into this just because it’s fun. This has potential; It’ll be one step closer to being fully legal.”

“Or one step closer to your grave,” Polly frowns, finally letting go of Michael, who in turn lets out an audible wince, rubbing his forearm soothingly. “Honestly, I’d let Michael go with you lot to the auction rather than have you running around with Solomons in that manner.”

“And another thing,” Tommy adds, folding his hands behind his back. The others look at him warily. “Solomons is coming with us.”

_____________

In the end, Tommy gets his way. Alfie’s arrives at Small Heath in the early hours of the morning of the auction, A few hours before their departure, insisting that _“we should come together in order to keep up the illusion.”_

“I still don’t understand why he’s coming,” Arthur grumbles, securing his gun in the holster hidden under his jacket. Alfie’s inside the house, being given a tour by Polly who’d finally succumbed to Tommy’s will after a long conversation and several cups of tea. “It’s not anything romantic or the sort.”

“Just get in the truck,” Tommy sighs, watching as everyone else clambers onto the back. Michael’s the last one to get in, satchel bumping against his leg as he heaves himself up. “And behave.”

“Yes, mum,” Arthur mocks, settling down with a huff, slouched against the side of the truck, arms crossed.

“Does that mean Alfie’s dad?” John asks, feigning innocence. 

_“Shut up,”_ Tommy hisses, fighting down the urge to flush as John grins, smug. “Don’t say anything I wouldn’t.”

John opens his mouth to say something back, smug smile still plastered across his face when Alfie comes up, the gold knob of his cane glinting in the cool sunlight. He stops right next to Tommy, looking up at the others in the van, most likely sizing them up. 

“Pleased to meet you,” Alfie tips his head, the brim of his top hat shadowing his eyes. It’s a good thing, Tommy’s mind supplies, as he’s sure the others wouldn’t take it seriously enough if they saw just how soft shaded Alfie’s eyes really are. Or maybe that’s just Tommy himself. “I’m Alfie Solomons.”

“We’ve heard,” Michael jumps in before anyone else can reply. He offers a hand, having to lean down a bit from his perch on the truck. “Michael Gray.”

“Little diplomat, aren’t you?” Alfie comments, amused, taking the proffered hand. He gives Michael the same shake he always gives, firm and short. “I don’t recall Tommy ever mentioning you.”

“I’m a new addition,” Michael says, eyes flitting to Tommy’s. “I’m being trained.” Polly isn’t here right now, still inside and going over the books, most likely. Tommy’s never been more glad in his life. 

“You can get to know the others later on,” he says, gesturing at Alfie to get to the front. “We’ve got to get going.”

“Yes,” Alfie agrees, ambling towards the passenger door and nodding seriously. “Horse auctions don’t wait for the weak of heart. Come on then, Tommy, you’re driving.”

It’s not Tommy’s first time driving, but it is his first time when there’s an alpha sitting in the passenger seat, letting him take control. It’s wonderfully new, the feeling that settles in his chest when he slips into the drivers seat, Alfie taking his own place besides him. They set off soon enough, bumping along the country road, the engine running smoothly for once.

“I didn’t expect you to actually agree to this, if I’m being honest,” Alfie admits after a short pause. He peers out the passenger window, looking quite taken aback by the greenery of English countryside. Tommy wonders if he’s ever stepped out of London and its busy, cramped streets. “Thought you’d tell me to fuck off, you know, so you can imagine that the telegram I got took me by surprise. Though you were quite straight to the point, which I appreciate.”

“There’s a lot of things that’ll take one by surprise,” Tommy replies, never once keeping his eyes off the road. He halts, mulling over his next words. “Your unusual offer, for example.”

“It came onto me that it’d be better, you know, if we joined forces in that sense. We’d even manage to get an entrance into high-society dinners if we played our cards right,” Alfie explains, sounding quite chuffed at his genius. His cane rests between his legs, both his hands clasped over the knob, rings catching the light coming in. “We’ve still got to get Sabini out of the picture first.”

Tommy swallows, tries not to think about anything else but the auction. He hasn’t told Alfie the reason why he plans to buy the horse, not yet, anyways. He thinks that he’ll tell him afterwards, when they’ve gotten into the swing of this new ‘relationship’. “We’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

“Fair enough,” Alfie hums. He relaxes in his seat, still somehow managing to cut an imposing figure whilst busying himself with commenting on the landscape and any other mundane thing he can twist into his little stories. Tommy’s never enjoyed listening to someone for lengthy periods of time, but with Alfie the talking doesn’t dig into his nerves, instead it filters into a content white noise, little key snippets peeking their heads through occasionally.

The looming anxiety he’d felt at the mention of Sabini, the tenseness that occupies his body constantly nowadays, loosens ever so slightly. Later, Tommy realises, is that he managed to finally breathe without having his heart race fifty paces too fast, the apprehension of things to come slipping away into the shadows for that brief ride; the twitter of birds and the whistle of the wind accompanied with Alfie’s slow drawl overtaking his senses instead.

_____________

“It’s insulting, really, that you didn’t bother to consider that I might want to eat, too,” Alfie complains as they make their way up to the balcony. The ring around the enclosure is full of high-society folk, clad in the latest fashions and tittering on about one social event or the other, blissfully unaware of the reality outside their little world. It’s hard not to want what they have, Tommy thinks.

“We offered sandwiches,” Michael says, hurrying along eagerly beside them. Alfie flings his arms out wide, nearly managing to avoid knocking someone over. 

“It wasn’t _kosher,”_ Alfie exclaims, waving his cane about. “Ham isn’t kosher! Neither is shrimp! I thought we’d established that I’m Jewish quite some time ago, I hope.”

“Then why the fuck didn’t you bring your own food?” Arthur grumbles. He’s brightened up considerably now, the scents of rich omegas perking him up to no end. Even Michael shows interest, and Tommy takes care not to mention it to Polly. She’ll have his head if Michael shacks up with some doe-eyed little thing without her knowing it.

“Guests of respectable hosts don’t need to worry about things such as _food,”_ Alfie retaliates. “I thought I’d be provided for, in addition to the fact that none of you kindly bothered to mention that the drive was going to be unnaturally long and extremely uncomfortable.”

Arthur sputters, clearly getting worked up. “Try sitting in the back of the va—“

“Tommy,” Curly suddenly interrupts, sweating, and wringing his hands nervously. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this horse.”

“Never mind, Curly,” Tommy frowns, shouldering his way through to get a view of the horse, Curly following earnestly. From behind, he can still hear Arthur and Alfie bickering. “You’re just getting worked up. Stick together and everything’ll be alright.”

“No, but really, Tommy,” Curly insists. “I’ve got a _really_ bad feeling that something’s going to go wrong.”

“It’s going to be alright,” Tommy says, half-paying attention. From across the wide open space, he catches the eyes of a female alpha. Alfie, quite purposefully, settles himself next to Tommy, and goes about surveying the area. “Nothing’s going to happen. Pay attention to the horse and the way she walks.”

Thankfully, Curly drops the topic when the horse Tommy’s set his sights on parades around the enclosure. Appreciative murmurs ripple through the room, and from behind, Arthur leans in to confirm the intended guineas they intend spend. The female alpha Tommy’d locked eyes with before won’t stop looking at him, won’t stop challenging him, even with Alfie’s obvious presence next to him. 

“She’s giving you quite the eye, you know,” Alfie whispers conversationally, leaning in inconspicuously. Tommy tears his gaze away from across the room, and turns his head every so slightly, his nose almost brushing Alfie’s. It’s about the most intimate he’s ever been with someone, outside of sex. Despite the relative closeness of their bodies, and the fact that Tommy can feel Alfie’s gentle breaths against his cheek, the hairs on the back of his neck don’t prickle in discomfort; a warm feeling slinks down into his belly instead. 

“You’ve got to be more, _Alpha,”_ he whispers back. “Offer me your arm.”

Alfie complies, gripping his cane in one hand and offering his arm out. Tommy tucks his hand into the crook of Alfie’s elbow, pointedly ignoring the sniggers that trickle in from behind. He turns his head subtly, just in time to see Arthur and John muffling their laughter with fists in their mouth. Alfie distracts him before he can say anything. “I thought you weren’t agreeable with this type of etiquette.”

“I’m not,” Tommy deadpans, meeting Alfie’s eyes. “But if it’s the only way to get the message across, then so be it.”

“I’d say you’d be going in over your head,” Alfie replies, shifting and pressing himself closer to Tommy. The warmth of his scent heightens till Tommy’s heady with it, the world around him moving in dark molasses. Distantly, he hears himself bidding, the female alpha bidding against him, and Arthur’s concerned noises as the money rises up. It seems like ages before he secures the horse, and by the time he finds out the cost, he’s sure Polly’ll string him up by his ears. “But you know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?”

It takes him a second to catch up to what’s happening, and he feels like he’s just gotten off a warm bath, his limbs heavy and slow. He doesn’t know why he’s suddenly so affected by Alfie’s scent, not until he sees Arthur scent the air, eyes turning dark as they lock with Alfie’s.

“You’re posturing,” Arthur hisses accusingly, he tries to shove his way between them, but Tommy won’t budge. Neither does Alfie. “Stop it.”

Alfie blinks at Arthur, and maybe it’s a trick of Tommy’s imagination, but Alfie’s own movements are relaxed and unhurried. It isn’t until some other alphas start scenting the air that Tommy realises his _own’s_ strengthened, too, going sweeter and more inviting. 

“Fuck off, Arthur,” Tommy murmurs back, tightening his hold on Alfie’s elbow. “I know what I’m doing.”

Arthur opens his mouth to retort, but John tugs him back, laying a calming hand on his shoulder. 

“Let go,” he says, pulling him outside. “C’mon lets have a drink outside.”

Arthur grumbles out a few more choice words, warily eyeing Alfie as he’s lead out of the balcony. Curly doesn’t seem to have noticed, and goes about happily cooing over the horses. From beside him, Michael remains quiet, studying Tommy and Alfie with a calculated stare. He really is his mother’s son. 

Tommy turns back around, and tries to focus in on the rest of the auction, Alfie’s presence beside him stronger than ever. From across, the female alpha's backed down, but she locks eyes with Tommy once again.

_____________

Her name is May Carleton, and from the get-go, Tommy can tell Alfie doesn’t like her.

“She’s far too rigid,” Alfie observes when May leaves after handing Tommy her business card. The stilted conversation they had could’ve gone far more smoother, Tommy thinks, if Alfie hadn’t been patiently waiting next to him. But he’d rather have him here, after the whole _posturing_ that occurred in the ring, than be alone. “Needs some loosening up, she does. I wonder if she’s ever tasted rum.”

“Not likely,” Tommy replies, pocketing the card, head still reeling from the previous events. “More of a gin and tonic by the looks of it.”

“You’re right,” Alfie agrees, keeping in step with him as they make their way to the enclosure. The others follow close behind, the cramped hallway making it hard for them to clump together. Arthur’s back now, less antsy than before, and Tommy smells the alcohol on him, stronger than it is on John. “That’s the latest fashion with those lot. Gin and tonic—never understood that.”

Tommy doesn’t reply, far too preoccupied with Alfie’s presence next to him, their shoulders brushing occasionally as they walk over to the auctioneer. His scent is more subtle now, far less powerful than it was before, and Tommy takes in a deep breath to clear his head. 

In hindsight, he should’ve been paying more attention to what was happening around him than trying to unravel the cocktail of emotions he was shoved into back on the balcony. It’s too late, though, and rather than getting out of his own head by himself, the ring of a gunshot and Alfie pushing him down onto the ground with a worried grunt snaps him out of his reverie.

“Fuck!” Someone shouts, and Tommy doesn’t have time to _think,_ jumps right into action instead, pushing up off the ground and fishing out his gun, pointing it up at the rafters. There’s more shots, and a bullet zips too close to him to be safe, whistling as it hits the ground and Tommy, in retaliation, fires his own back. 

“Tommy Shelby?” Arthur’s screaming, fists flying and blood sprays onto the sand floor. Michael’s watching with wide eyes, hand clenched around the keys Tommy’s thrown at him minutes before. “Why not fucking Arthur?”

“ _Christ,_ Arthur,” Tommy yells, shoving his gun at Alfie. He hurries towards the fighting, grabbing at Arthur’s shoulders and pulling him back. “Don’t get blood on the fucking kid!”

“I’m Arthur fucking Shelby!” Arthur bellows, livid, fists still punching away. His knuckles are swollen to a near painful shade, blood caking them and the man’s face. Rather than letting go, he goes about and _fucking bites the man’s throat._ Jesus Christ, he’s lost his fucking mind. 

“Fucking hell,” Tommy yelps, finally tugging him free off of the assassin or whoever the fuck he is. He lets out a tired breath, Arthur struggling weakly in his arms as John and Curly step in, pinning him down onto the ground. 

There’s blood on Tommy’s face, he can tell, and he glances up from where he’s sprawled to see Alfie staring at him with an unreadable expression, gun still clutched in his hand. Tommy notes the hard line of his mouth, lips pressed together and eyebrows furrowed as he helps Tommy up. 

“Sabini,” is all Alfie says, handing the gun back to Tommy. 

Tommy nods, scanning at the scene before him, Arthur still pinned down and struggling for another fight, the auctioneer covered in blood, wheezing out shallow breaths, fingertips barely brushing the handle of his revolver. Michael stands unharmed to the side, gaping like a goon at the wreck before him. Frankly, Tommy doesn’t blame him.

He turns to Alfie, licking his lips from nerves, and swallows. “Sabini.”


	12. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finally fucking updated guys.
> 
> As said before, there's been a lot of chaos in my life at the moment (and there will continue to be chaos) but I plan to see this fic to its end. I don't want to leave anything hanging in that sense, and it just seems terrible to give up on a project that I've grown as a writer with. 
> 
> Anyroad, thanks for the support! II hope you enjoy this chapter! I'm also over at tumblr, where you can access asks I've replied to (and send some asks yourself, if you'd like!). I know it's a hellsite, but it's a good way for me to write little bits and pieces of a bigger idea. It's at https://fiveaceslike.tumblr.com/
> 
> Also, this is when the story starts to derail, I'm not going to have a thousand things happening at once (I'm not confident or smart enough to do that x)) so it'll be very focused on the main plot). 
> 
> Happy New Years and thanks for all the patience guys, you're the best!

“I suppose now’s a good time as ever to tell you we need to finish him off,” Alfie says, when the dust at the auction has settled down and Arthur’s stopped screaming bloody murder at the top of his lungs. “He’s going to keep on trying to kill you.”

“I know,” Tommy grits out, heart beating rabbit paced fast. “I know.”

“What do you want to do, then?” Alfie appraises Tommy, eyes shifting this way and that, as if he’s calculating his next move. Although he can’t, really, since his next move is Tommy’s next move, and that notion, that he and Alfie are now considered together in the public eye is both terrifying and relieving. “You know, the next plan of action.”

 _I don’t know,_ Tommy wants to say. _I’m not sure. I’m tired, I’m exhausted. I don’t want to do this anymore._

“Go home,” he says instead and straightens himself up, brushing off the dust on his jacket, clearing his throat. _Look presentable, keep your guard up._ “And make a plan.”

Alfie hums, thoughtful, and turns to regard the others, still busy collecting themselves up and looking towards Tommy with questions he doesn’t know the answers to. “Okay, then.”

_____________

It’s dark by the time they make it back, the cool air nipping at Tommy’s nose as he hurries towards the house, Arthur’s disgruntled noises and the rhythmic tapping of Alfie’s cane following him to the door. He wants to go back to his old bedroom upstairs the minute he’s inside, but this is Small Heath, and everyone who matters is here. He can’t just hide upstairs, no matter how much he’s longing for his pipe. 

“All of you to the living room,” he orders, shrugging off his coat. “Not you, Michael.”

Michael lets out an affronted noise, clearly displeased, and in any other circumstance Tommy would’ve let him in. But he’d just been shot at, and he’d rather not have Polly badgering on about Michael’s safety and so called innocence to him on top of the still fresh gunshot echoing through his head. 

The fire’s already blazing by the time he’s herded Michael into the kitchen and called up Polly, informing her to _pick up Michael, yes, nothing happened to him._ He enters the living room, greeted by Arthur sprawled in an armchair, looking like he’s gone through hell and back. Gun laid out in front of him, Arthur wearily stares at it, the bloody knuckles of one hand clenched tight, the other rooting around in his jacket pockets to procure a little blue vial filled with powder.

“Don’t fucking touch that,” Tommy snaps, snatching it out of Arthur’s hand. “It’s not going to fix anything.”

“Won’t work,” John says from the couch, leaned against the armrest, a cigarette already on its way to being lit up between his lips. He nods over at the vial. “He’s got a whole stash of it hidden fuck knows where.”

“How long?” Tommy hisses, shaking the blue vial in front of Arthur’s face, who in turn stares at him with dead eyes, dark bruises underneath. _Been there,_ his brain helpfully supplies. “Did you do it before we went? Or during?”

“Fuck you care for?” Arthur grouses, slouching further in his seat and staring at the fire. His hand trembles when he unbuttons the cuffs of his shirt. “Too busy wrapped up in your little charade to notice anything, huh?”

“For Christ’s sake—John?”

“He didn’t.” John blows out smoke. “Drank a shit ton, though.”

Alfie tuts from the corner of the room, shaking his head. “Never drink on the job, mate.”

Tommy shakes the vial in front of Arthur’s face again, the fire making the blue glass reflect on a deepening scowl. “This is why we don’t fucking do this shit on the job, the drink makes you off your rocker.”

“Give me that,” Arthur snatches the vial from Tommy, scrambling to secure it in his pocket, still scowling. Tommy doesn’t bother to ask for it back. Like John said, Arthur’s probably got a whole fucking stash of the stuff, and even if he didn’t, it’s not like Tommy’s a martyr in _that_ department. He’s had his fair share of stuff like that, still does, so to speak. “And fuck off.”

“The conversation doesn’t end here,” Tommy points out, the sudden press of bone deep exhaustion takes over him, a headache beginning to throb at the backs of his eyes. He’s too tired to properly deal with Arthur, with anyone, and all he wants is his fucking pipe and a bed for the night. Is that too much to ask?

Apparently so, because when he turns, Alfie’s still looking at him expectantly, leant forward in interest; _Christ_ he saw the whole fucking spectacle. Before he can say anything, there’s a knock at the door as it’s being opened, and Polly enters the room, regardless of invitation. 

“What’s this, then?” she asks when four pairs of eyes greet her. She’s looking at Tommy as she speaks, careful to not even acknowledge Arthur, who seems more of a mess as each second ticks by. “Heard the auction didn’t go as well?”

“We bought the horse for more than we expected,” Tommy says, skirting the half-truth that he’d nearly been murdered after. Wouldn’t do to have her put in a frenzy at the moment, he’s got enough to deal with as it is. “Got a trainer, too.”

“For the horse?” Polly asks, as if it needs clarification, and Tommy wonders what she really heard when he said trainer. “Wouldn’t Curly do just fine?”

“It’s a trial, I’ll see if they’re any good.” He fishes out the card Carleton gave him, hands it over to Polly, painfully aware of eyes boring holes into the back of his neck. “Michael’s in the kitchen.”

Polly hums, eyeing something over Tommy’s shoulder, it takes a moment for his addled brain to realise she’s eyeing _Alfie._ “You staying over, then?”

“Not really no,” Alfie says, and he’s smiling a little, amused. He nods over at Tommy. “Although if I were to stay over, that is, I’d need Tommy’s permission over here, but I don’t think we’ve gotten to that point of our relationship yet.”

“Well, do whatever you’d like,” Polly tells Tommy as she leaves the room, the card he’d handed to her now resting on the table, next to the gun. “I’ve got to go.”

The door shuts with a soft click, and the room’s silent again. John gets up, pocketing his lighter and nodding over at Tommy. “Esme’ll be waiting.”

“Yeah,” Tommy waves a hand, turning towards Arthur. “What about you?”

“Kipping here for the night.” Arthur gets up, hunched over, and follows John out the room, until it’s only Alfie and Tommy left. He lets out a breath, they still have to figure out what to do with Sabini. 

“We better start planning, then.”

_____________

Alfie, it turns out, doesn’t like to drink often.

“I make the stuff,” he explains, shrugging a shoulder and picking up his teacup. “Don’t dabble in it myself that often. Although, I’ve got to taste it, yeah, every single new batch. Would’ve gotten one of them experts, whatever you call them, but they’re a hassle to keep. Too flighty about doing something illegal.”

“Illegal?” Tommy asks. “I thought you were a legitimate business, _Mr._ Solomons.”

“ _Alfie,_ ” Alfie corrects, and then grins. “Nothing’s ever fully legitimate, not when it’s got people behind running it.”

“True,” Tommy acknowledges. “Everything’s it’s own special kind of fucked up.”

Alfie laughs, delighted, and it’s warm and something in Tommy shifts with a click, and suddenly he’s relaxing into his own chair, the tenseness in his shoulders loosening. It isn’t anything drastic, but big enough that he takes notice and stows it away later for closer inspection. 

“Right on,” Alfie grins, eyes sparkling in the lowlight of the fire. It’s beginning to die down, and Tommy half heartedly thinks about getting up and adding another log, but the room is uncomfortably hot as it is, so instead he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it along the chair. He doesn’t miss the way Alfie’s eyes follow the line of his shoulders. “You’ve got a knack for summing things up haven’t you? Awfully undiplomatic. But it’s good, I suppose, to show that you aren’t willing to deal with any flack.”

Tommy makes a noncommittal sound, focusing on the bitter taste of his coffee instead, he’d skipped the drinks when Alfie’d declined one for himself. He diverts his attention back to the larger problem at hand. “Sabini might lay low for a while, this was a risky move for him.”

“You took it surprisingly well,” Alfie admits. “Tell you what, if he lays low, we ought to hunt him out for ourselves, show him that we’re not shaken up by his ventures into assassination. I know where he likes to _mingle_ when he isn’t faffing around the Eden Club, though now that you’re running it, that’s one place we can tick off.”

Tommy blinks, surprised. “Where?”

“A rat never reveals his nest,” Alfie says ominously, and smiles, eyes dark. “I had someone follow him a while back, to scope out his domain. He’s a threat to me, you know, to my business and my morals.”

“Suppose you’ll tell me where, then?” Tommy asks. 

Alfie tilts his head, and sets his finished teacup down with a sharp clink in the saucer. “I’ll _show_ you where he’s at.”

“When?” 

“In about two weeks” Alfie estimates. “You ought to get dressed to the nines, get some of your men to come, too, to blend into the background. I’ll come around at 7, at night. We’ll head off together.”

He’s being ordered, by someone who isn’t even his family, and Tommy bites down the defence that’s threatening to come out. Alfie’s _different,_ maybe, and even if he isn’t, even if he’s just like every other goddamn alpha out there, Tommy can’t just go ahead and curdle their relationship, real or otherwise. Too much of his next steps in London are resting on them staying together, and besides, like Polly’s said countless times before, they need allies.

“Okay,” he manages to grit out, hand clenched. He’s got to work on this, whatever reaction he gets when something like this happens, but Alfie doesn’t seem to notice. And if he does notice, he doesn’t mention it, and gets up instead. 

“We’ll keep in touch yeah? Flesh out the strategies, you know, so we don’t come running in blind, so to speak.”

“Okay,” Tommy repeats, and gets up, too, seeing Alfie to the door. It’s late at night, nearing two, and the ride back to London is long, but Tommy doesn’t offer him the guest room. And even if he were to offer, he’s sure Alfie wouldn’t take it. 

_____________

May Carleton visits him one afternoon in between the planning, the heels of her shoes clacking loudly against the cobblestone street. She knocks once on the door of the _Garrison_ , prim, and when Tommy opens it, she looks up at him, wide eyed and expectant. “Hello.”

“You didn’t have to knock,” is all Tommy says, and steps to the side to let her in. It’s working hours, leaving the pub relatively empty, the barmaid hidden at the back and Arthur gone fuck knows where. “I thought we were meeting at the docks.”

“We were,” May acknowledges, looking around curiously, as if she’s never stepped in a working class pub. “But then I thought I’d like a drink.”

She turns and smiles, Tommy goes behind the counter, avoids her gaze. “What’ll it be.”

“Gin and tonic,” she says, regarding Tommy curiously when he pours himself whiskey. “You don’t take it with anything?”

“I like it the way it is,” he says, and then hands her the glass. “You’ve seen the horse?”

“Not yet,” she smiles again, softer, and takes a sip. “I wanted to see you first.”

Alarm bells ring in Tommy’s head. “Oh?”

“You left quite the impression with me, last time, Mr. Shelby. You and that other man, the alpha, what’s his name again?”

“Alfie.” Tommy drains the glass. “Alfie Solomons.”

May hums, taking another sip, looking at Tommy over the rim of her glass. “Alfie Solomons.”

“Yes,” Tommy nods, and sits down. A pause. “Do you want to fuck me, Mrs. Carleton?”

Another pause, this time May laughs, shrill and loud, and sets down her glass in front of Tommy. She pulls her coat tighter over, and clutches her handbag to her chest. “Of course not, I’m only here for the horse.”

It’s a lie, if Tommy’s ever heard one, the way she looks at him tells a completely different story. He doesn’t push it, not when he’s in a pretend relationship with Alfie. It’ll blow their whole cover. “Then you ought to go ahead and inspect her.”

“Yes,” May agrees, tilting her head down, _submissive_. Tommy swallows. “I should.” 

_____________

 _Run._ His instincts scream at him. _Run. Run. RUN!_

Tommy shudders minutely, tightens the tie on his throat a fraction too much and stares at himself in the mirror. Immaculate suit, neat hair. His pocket watch shined to perfection, just like the rest of him, but something unsettling writhes in the pit of his stomach. It’s familiar, this feeling, similar to the one in the trenches but not quite so. This one is thicker, heavier, like it’s ready to crawl up his throat and squeeze his windpipe until he can’t breathe. 

_Run! Run! Run!_

His mind is a disorderly mess, fifty thoughts running through it frantically as he goes over the plan he and Alfie’d hatched together all those weeks ago. There’s nothing to worry about, he tells himself. Everything is going according to plan so far; Arthur and the others are set up in their positions, and Alfie’s downstairs ready and waiting.

The unsettling feeling, though, squirms some more, sending a cool tingling sensation sliding down his spine from the nape of his neck to the heels of his feet. It makes him shiver, fists clenching so tight that he’s sure his nails will leave behind half-moon indentations in the palms of his hands. 

_Run! Run! Run!_

No, he can’t do that. There’s far too many things to finish, far too many things to _be._ Running away isn’t going to solve anything- it’s just a temporary solution to a permanent problem. 

He looks at himself in the mirror again. Cheeks flushed pink, lips bitten red. From down below he can hear Alfie moving, the thump of his cane echoing in the otherwise empty house. 

“Tommy?” Alfie calls from downstairs. His voice is curious, an undertone of something Tommy might consider concern lacing the edges. “Tommy, you’re all right there?”

How close had they gotten, exactly, during those weeks of planning Sabini’s demise that Alfie’s gotten around to asking about his wellbeing? It’s unprecedented, and he tries to reply but only manages to let out a stutter. He blushes from unseen embarssment, cheeks turning red. That burning feeling swoops in again, and he feels that tightness in his throat, his chest, his groin. God, he doesn’t like this, whatever it is.

“Tommy?” Alfie calls again, snapping him out of his thoughts. He checks his pocket watch, its quarter past seven. They’re leaving soon. 

Taking in a shaky breath, he gives himself another once over in the looking-glass. He’s fine. He’s fine.

_He’s fine._

_____________

Alfie makes lighthearted conversation the entire two hours they stand around waiting for Sabini, and Tommy supposes that if it weren’t for the constant talking in his right ear, he would’ve gone and moped in the corner along with the others, Arthur and John. 

But he’s Alfie’s _plus_ one, an invite to a high society dinner he didn’t know how Alfie got the invitations to, and he doesn't mind. The course of action is to test Sabini’s waters, see the hidden plans behind all that façade. 

“You’ve got to loosen up, yeah?” Alfie says conversationally once they’re alone again, off to the side, near the drinks. “You’re doing wonderful in the talking, but I can tell you’re one step away from snapping. Say, tell me about what happened, when I wasn’t there, it’ll help get your mind off things.”

“Tell you what?” Tommy asks, and looks longingly at the drinks cart. He can’t—won’t—touch it, though, not when he’s meant to be on the lookout. He blows out a breath, frustrated “About my day-to-day?”

“If you want,” Alfie says, and then nudges him gently with his hand, the one wrapped snug around his waist. “Or you could tell me something else, like what happened to that horse of yours.”

“May Carleton came over and took her back to her estate for training.”

“The alpha we met at the auctions, the female one?”

“Yes,” Tommy nods, something catching at the corner of his eye. It’s too dim to see all the way to the end of the room, and the light catching on all the jewellery is too bright. Everything’s coloured in as if he’s looking through a brown bottle glass, muted shades of colour and flashes of blinding brightness all flowing together into a blend of smoke from the cigarettes. Mixed in with the now lessening panic thrumming through his veins, it makes him feel like he’s floating up near the ceiling, light headed and weightless. “She had a drink with me.”

Alfie’s about to say something, mouth open and lips red in the dim light, slightly wet from where he’d licked them not a moment ago. _They’re chapped,_ he’d complained at the car when he’d first done it, and Tommy wants to lean in, see how chapped they really are, if the licking does any good, or if they’re soft and Alfie’s just using it as an excuse just so he can look Tommy through hooded eyes as he does it. _Fuck,_ that’s a weird thought. Wanting to kiss someone for that reason. 

Alfie pauses, looking over Tommy’s shoulder. “Say, isn’t that the Inspector? Campbell or something or the other.”

Tommy turns, Alfie’s hand still on his waist. He squints his eyes, searching before landing on Campbell. _What’s he doing here, and how does Alfie know him_. “Yes, it is.”

“We better head to the other side, then, eh?” Alfie says knowingly, and steers Tommy without asking. This time, he doesn’t mind, and follows, Campbell still in his peripheral vision. Thankfully, the other’s too engrossed in his conversation, and Tommy doesn’t want to deal with more people, he’s got enough on his plate as it already is.

Alfie stops, his hand squeezing Tommy’s waist, not too hard, more of a reassurance than anything else. “I’ve spotted Sabini, he’s just come in.”

And sure enough, there’s Sabini, in the flesh. He meets Tommy’s eyes, and smirks. _Fuck._


	13. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally updated guys! Again, business as usual, my schedule is spastic :/ But the fic's planned out, and will be over sooner than you know it so ;)
> 
> Also, warnings at the end.

He’s nervous.

There’s no other word to describe the cold, unfamiliar feeling that settles heavily in the bottom of his stomach. It makes him queasy, a lump in his throat forming at the sight of Sabini. He’s in uncharted territory, and he needs to step carefully. He needs to walk on eggshells, not for the first time. A delicate slack line act, stretched across the room, wobbling precariously above bobbing heads.

He’s starting to float out of his body.

“Hey,” Alfie whispers, leaning in to press his lips to Tommy’s ear. They’re soft, just like he’d expected, and the scratch of his beard alongside makes a shiver skip down his spine, the conflicting feelings of _run, run, run_ at the sight of Sabini snaking his way to them mixing in with the _stay, stay, stay_ when Alfie rubs circles with the pad of his thumb on Tommy’s hip. “Hey, he’s heading this way.”

Tommy grits his teeth, clenches the hand in his pocket into a fist. “I know, I’m not blind.”

He’s snappish. Snapper. He wants to eat fish, now. He’s craving it all of a sudden, a heat craving, maybe. But his heat isn’t coming in ever; he’s gotten newer, illegal suppressants since the last incident. Humiliating enough as it was: Freddie bleeding out on the street, the coppers running in with guns draw out, him on his hands and knees, whimpering at the pain and the aching _emptiness_ for something beyond a knot, for something like _safety_ and _comfort_ and _belonging_.

No. He’s got his suppressants. He’s got his business and his family, and he’s got his and Alfie’s whatever-it-is. He’ll be fine. He doesn’t need anything else, really. He’s fine.

He’s fine. He’s fine. He’s fine.

Every step Sabini takes towards him, he’s fine. He _knows_ he’s fine. He has to convince himself he’s fine, coddle himself into submission to a lie. It’s not like he’s not done it before, too many times to count, in fact. It’s a habit; as easy as breathing, as easy as fishing out a cigarette and taking a hit, as easy as cocking a gun and shooting at the body of a stranger.

Exhale, he’s fine. Inhale, he’s fine. Fine, fine, _fine_.

Say the word too many times, and it rolls around your head like loose marbles, rattling in the empty space where something is missing. Rattle, rattle, roll.

Sabini’s almost in front of him, and the marbles shake violently, scattering around his brain all at once. His blood feels static, radio static, buzzing around in that faint, far off sound, miles away from where he is. He doesn’t know where he is.

“Hey,” Alfie says again, brings up the other hand to touch his arm. “Hey, Tommy?”

“Yeah?” Tommy says, and he hates this: the lack of control over what’s happening to him, the fact that he can’t get his fucking bearings right all because of a goddamn _alpha_ who doesn’t even pose a real threat, actually, except that night in the alley won’t stop coming back and Tommy distantly wonders if he could take one of the crystal ashtrays lying about and bash his head in for all the trouble its put him through. Alfie touches his arm again, putting pressure there, near the elbow, and slowly, Tommy begins to regain feeling in that area. Okay, so maybe the bashing is out of hand. He doesn’t know.

“You alright there?”

Alfie’s been saying those three words the entire evening, repeating them like a mantra, a filler-in between the lulls in their conversation. It’s something he’s read off of a pamphlet, most likely, on how to deal with omegas, maybe, except Alfie doesn’t seem to be the type to read pamphlets. A psychology book, then. Tommy remembers him talking about psychology the first time they met.

He really wants to bash his head in, this unrelenting pressure behind his eyes growing, and it’s not a headache, he knows, because headaches hurt, physically. This whatever it is digs underneath his skin like a tick, burrowing behind his eyes and picking away at the worn down edges of his sanity. He needs to quiet his thoughts down, he needs a drink.

A waiter passes by then, coincidentally, brandishing a tray full of flutes of champagne. Tommy’s never had champagne before, but he knows any drink is a good one, so he takes two, hands one to Alfie even though he knows the man doesn’t drink, and braces himself with a good swallow of his own glass.

Sabini stops in front of him, inclines his head. His lips are twisted in an infuriating smirk Tommy wants to shoot off his face.

“Mr. Shelby,” he says, sickeningly polite. “It’s good to see you in such…excellent condition.”

No thanks to you, Tommy wants to say. You’ve made me lose my fucking mind.

“Sabini,” he says instead, not missing the way the alpha’s eyes flash at the dropped _Mr_. He wants to add something more, something suave, but can’t come up with anything else. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth, throat constricted. He’s underestimated the effect Sabini would have on him.

A stretched silence takes over then. Alfie, for the first time since they’ve arrived, is oddly silent, his hand having left Tommy’s arm, all of him having left Tommy. But he’s still stood by his side, shoulders brushing. Sabini’s eyes flick between the two of them, calculating. Tommy wonders if he’s heard the news, surely they’d put up enough of a show in the horse auction to garner the attention of others like them; whispers of _Tommy Shelby and Alfie Solomons are an item now_ must’ve wormed their way across the spider's web and reached Sabini.

It suddenly seems oddly fickle, though, this pretend relationship, something a couple of school kids would’ve come up with, but certainly not two men that want to expand their horizons. But to such devices one must descend, and really, it’s not like Alfie’s a bad sort. Not at all.

Distantly, he wonders why he’s thinking of the past when he ought to be in the now. Why he’s thinking of Alfie and the colour of his eyes and not Sabini staring right at him, Campbell faintly visible behind his shoulder, turned away. But his brain still feels like it’s tethered to him by a rope, rising up above his head like a hot air balloon, and it’s all Tommy can do to hold on to it.

Sabini is the one who breaks the silence, as expected. “I see you and Solomons are a couple. Fitting, an omega like you shouldn’t be dallying around all by your lonesome.”

There is something oily about the way Sabini says those words, some disgusting, slimy truth wriggling around underneath, and it takes less than a second for Tommy to catch on to what the man really means. He wants to be in Alfie’s place.

“Sabini,” Alfie says, finally, voice terrifyingly gentle. He brings his arm up again, rests his hand on the middle of Tommy’s back. “You haven’t changed one fucking bit since the last time we met, eh?”

Sabini looks back at them like he’s just been punched in the face, and Tommy counts it as a victory, even if it wasn’t done by his hand. After all, he and Alfie are a team right now, until this engagement is over.

“And you haven’t changed either, Solomons.” Sabini’s retort is pathetic, a weak volley of Alfie’s own words. His tone is dull, unlike Alfie’s, insecurity painfully evident and Tommy should feel some sort of pride in it, in the crack in Sabini’s composure. Except, this is the same man who threatened to gang rape him in an alley, the same man who has instigated more than once that Tommy should be the proverbial breeding bitch that seemingly all alphas think omegas are. He comes to the understanding that he doesn’t want to feel anything for Sabini. So he won’t.

He pushes away the memories of that night and decides the only way to get Sabini to spill anything is to be polite with him. “I hear you’ve got something big planned for the Epsom Races,” he says, and prays that Sabini takes the bait.

The man does, his eyes lighting up in sick glee, but he doesn’t expand on anything useful at all. Cleverer than Tommy assumed. “Yes, we’ve got all the big horses participating.”

“Say,” Tommy suddenly remembers his idea. It might be too early, he thinks, but if May Carleton is that much of a whiz as she says she is with horses, and if Alfie doesn’t look surprised at the notion, he can pull this fast add on with ease. Still, he doubts it, his head still feels cloudy, but certain things are beginning to appear sharper, realer. “Is it too late to sign up any other horses? I’ve got one that seems promising.”

Sabini blinks at him again, shocked, and from his peripheral vision Tommy sees Alfie’s shock, too, although the alpha quickly smooths it away before it’s caught.

“No,” Sabini sounds genuinely surprised, thrown off the loop and _bingo_ ; this is exactly what Tommy needs. “It’s not coming up for a long while yet, you’ve still got time.”

Tommy thinks that if it weren’t for the formal setting and the number of high ranking officials stuffed into one room, Sabini would’ve been far more worse than he is now. He would’ve been more crass, for one; belittling, assuring himself that Tommy couldn’t run rings around him in the expense of Tommy himself (although he can, most definitely, except Sabini reminds him too much of the past, making words get stuck in his throat and its hard, for the first time in years, it’s difficult for his mind to connect the pieces quickly).

Instead, Sabini is forcing himself to be polite, Alfie’s presence aiding in that despite their history, and what’s that thing Polly always used to sigh? _An alpha would trust the word of another alpha but never one of an omega_ — something like that, Tommy can’t remember it clearly. But he remembers the slump of her shoulders after another shouting match with his father, the world-wide weariness that made her hunch over and keep quiet.

Until, of course, Arthur Sr. fucked off to the States and Tommy took over. Weak omega, indeed.

“Good.” He nods as if to end the conversation, leaving it up to Sabini. His head is getting clearer by the second, still fuzzy, but the balloon is descending gently, slowly but surely. He’s getting his bearings back together again. But then Sabini smiles again, wicked, tilts his head in a way to say goodbye, and heads straight for Campbell.

They clap shoulders, the two of them, grinning at each other in familiarity, and Tommy knows they’ve got something hidden up their sleeves. Alfie’d wandered off somewhere by this point, ambling off to the other end of the room to strike up a conversation with Arthur, who’s been lurking around the edges since the beginning.

This leaves Tommy alone, standing there with a half-empty champagne flute clutched between white-knuckled fingers, and when Campbell and Sabini turn in unison to smile at him, their gazes predatory, it’s over. Arthur Sr comes up like a bad omen, rams himself into the forefront of Tommy’s mind and all he can see is black, the room descending itself into chaos, transforming into the night where he’d been beaten nearly to death from Arthur Sr’s leather shoes, imported from Italy even though they couldn’t afford food let alone the fucking shoes. He remembers the blood, he remembers his second heat and Arthur Sr yelling at him for something out of his grasp, he remembers the screams, he hears the gunshots. And then he’s back in the trenches and the Jerries are coming, and they’re going to scent him underneath all that dirt and blood and rape him till he’s dead, he’s sure of it, he’s sure of it, he’s sure of—he needs to get out of here before he looses his fucking mind.

________

Suddenly, he can’t _breathe_ —it’s all too much, the lights, the sounds even though there’s nobody here out in the bloody hallway, in his empty little corner where he’s backed up against the wall, the ridges of a column he doesn’t register digging into his sides. His body feels numb, white static, the crackle of the radio when it isn’t working, loud and insistent and buzzing, filling his ears again, blurring his vision and making his knees shake in a way they haven’t since before the war.

_Fuck, Fuck, Fuck. Why is he hearing laughter and gunshots in a fucking dinner party._

It’s too fucking much, and he’s hyperventilating, he can tell, he’s lost control of his body and any second now he’s going to piss his pants like the _weak little omega_ you are, and Christ, when did Arthur Sr get here, laughing in his cruel way ever since he’d figured out Tommy was an omega, that Tommy was a weak-willed thing but he’s not, he’s _not._ Polly’d told him that all those years ago, keeps on telling him that now, and she swims into his vision, voice dreamy and far off, saying the magic words _“you’re strong, Tommy, you’re a survivor. You’re a better man than your father ever was.”_ But that can’t be true, can it? Because he’s a fucking omega, _he’s meant for nothing but breeding,_ no matter how much he’s worked up for himself, no matter how much he’s shown time and time again he’s worthy of the praise, worthy to be seen as an equal, but he’s lost control. He’s lost control, _he’s lost control, HE’S LOST CON—_

“Tommy!”

There’s a hand at the back of his head. He can feel it, the warmth of a broad palm against the shorn hair there, gentle in the way the thumb rubs back and forth. It’s cradling him. And there’s another one, on his shoulder, just resting there. Gentle, too.

“Tommy.”

He can’t tell who the voice is, static blood still rushing through his veins, crowding his ears and filling it with cotton wool, but he pries his eyes open, bleary and wet, and sees a blurry silhouette, a familiar broad brimmed hat and beard centred in his vision. Alfie’s brows are furrowed. “Tommy.”

He’s still breathing unsteadily, quick short gasps that wake him up at night, chest compressed tight, throat constricted, blood and dead men and screams and leather handcrafted shoes spilled across the backs of his eyelids, lurking in the dark corners of his room. But this isn’t his room, he realises. This is a hallway in a mansion, an estate, and he is tucked between two pillars, Alfie crowding him into the space but not pushing, just holding.

“Tommy,” Alfie repeats, and he only says that, over and over again. Tommy, Tommy, Tommy. He says it with conviction, reverence, tone never changing, eyes never leaving Tommy’s and it’s fucking euphoric, this feeling that he can’t quite place, but he welcomes it because he needs _this_ , whatever it is. “Tommy.”

He swallows, throat raw, and he wonders if it’s from screaming. He doesn’t remember screaming. “Yeah?”

Alfie looks at him for a long while, thumb still rubbing circles into the back of his head. His eyes are clear, there is no judgement there. He looks thoughtful, calm. Worried. “I think we better get home, now. We’ve got as much as we can out of the rat.”

Rat. There were rats in the tunnels, and in Tommy’s old home. Large, disgusting grey things with tails that looked like wriggling worms and eyes that glowed in the dark: monstrous, huge, haunting him wherever he went. Wherever he goes.

“Tommy?” Alfie says again, and he’s brought back by the tone. It is gentle, reassuring, something he can lean against on, and he does, pressing against Alfie, tucking himself into the crook of his neck and snuffling. He vaguely registers wetness on his cheeks, and something salty hits his tongue, tangy and familiar. Tears.

“Tommy.” Alfie sighs, and Tommy wants him to keep on repeating his name, over and over again, until it’s the only thing Alfie can think, hear, feel, breathe and _oh._ That’s it.

He pulls back, looks Alfie dead in the eyes, mind suddenly scarily calm. He’s on a mission, now, and he needs to see where it leads. Soldier on, young warrior, and all that bullshit. He doesn’t care. He wants to know what Alfie’s lips taste like, even with tears still leaking from his eyes and hands shaking.

So he does. He leans in the last couple of inches, tilting his head just so, he knows the moves, and presses his lips against Alfie’s. He feels powerful, now. He’s not quite sure why, just a couple of seconds ago his mind was a scrambled mess, it still is, but now there is an eye to this hurricane and he is kissing Alfie in it before the other side sweeps in and ruins everything.

He wants to deepen the kiss, so he does. Bringing up a hand, he rests it at the nape of Alfie’s neck. He stows away the feeling of facial hair against his cheeks, the softness of Alfie’s lips against his, plush, inviting. They open up when the alpha inhales in shock, body finally catching up to what’s happening, hands coming to rest on Tommy’s waist.

They pull back. Alfie’s cheeks are wet, slightly, from Tommy’s tears. His lips are red. “We shouldn’t be doing this.”

“We really shouldn’t,” Tommy agrees, and then leans in for one more kiss. Alfie reciprocates, frighteningly gentle, like Tommy’ll shy away from him in any second. They pull back again when footsteps echo across the hall.

Arthur and John and the others emerge just as Alfie’s stepping out of the alcove, Tommy following shortly after, having collected himself. He hasn’t, but appearances must be kept and he can’t afford to appear weak in his greatest hour of weakness, if that makes sense. It doesn’t really, but he shrugs it off.

“Ready to head home?” Arthur asks, after exchanging a look with John, both of them uncharacteristically careful. Tommy nods. He follows them silently to the car, slipping into the seat beside Alfie, their knees brushing.

He is calm the entire ride back, some part of him always touching Alfie, and it is oddly soothing, comforting. He used to want to push down that feeling, but now he revels in it. If touching Alfie in some way makes him stop screaming into the void, then so be it.

Alfie won’t stop glancing at him the entire way back, and Tommy can’t help himself, either.

______

He loses himself to the pipe and his nightmares later, locked up in his bedroom, curled up under the sheets. But that’s the last time. He’ll make sure of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is talk of rape and degrading/sexist slurs.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and Kudos are very much appreciated, and if you want you can also give plot ideas! 
> 
> Updates will be spontaneous, but I will finish this fic. 
> 
> Constructive criticism is very much encouraged! It'll help me improve as a writer, so I won't get offended or the like, if that's what you might be worrying about :)
> 
> Thanks for reading! x
> 
> -Ace


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